Colt & Winchester
by Sojourner84
Summary: Following the case of a 65 year-old murder, Dean and Sam find themselves witnessing events firsthand and discovering the truth behind their past and its staggering impact on their future. 3rd in A War With No Front Series. Co-write Bayre and Sojourner84
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This story is the third installment in the _War with No Front Series_. I have had the privilege of being able to help create the series and to write this collaborative piece for it with the talented Bayre. She has done an amazing job with the first two stories, and we'd love for you to check out _The Road Less Traveled_, and _Terror Town, U.S.A._ Both of which are on her account. While _Colt & Winchester_ is part of a "bigger picture" you do not have to have read the previous two stories to be able to fully understand the contents of this piece, though we do encourage it! However, if you choose to read this without having read the first two, there are a few things you do need to know about the series. It picks up after the heartbreaking Season 3 finale, and therefore all spoilers for seasons one through three of the show are fair game. This is a Season 4 Alternate Universe series.

_The Road Less Traveled_ takes place two weeks after Dean's death and focuses on his mysterious return and his search for Sam. Neither come to understand the circumstances behind Dean's return or the cause, but both have been significantly changed by the collection and return of Dean's soul. _Terror Town, U.S.A._ focused on the dangers of Sam's uncontrolled abilities in a town where everyone is slowly going mad. _Colt & Winchester_ could be referred to as our version of "In the Beginning." This series focuses on the unique and mysterious connection between Dean and Sam and deviates from Kripke's season four, and the war between angels and demons.

Both Bayre and I hope you enjoy and as always feedback is appreciated!

**Rating:** T

Special thanks to Vanessa and noelani618 for your betas.

**Disclaimer:** As painful and utterly sad as it is to admit, we don't own Supernatural. 'Tis property of the CW and the Krip.

CW—Chapter 1

_Bobby Singer: Everybody got into hunting somehow_.

**July 4, 1954 Bay Village, Ohio**

Leaning against the open window of their weather-worn French doors, Mary Shards took in the warm, July night. The scent of lilacs and azaleas perfumed the humid air. Her home offered her a wonderful view of Lake Erie. The land sloped gently down the three or four hundred yards from the house to the lake. There was a breeze blowing the fragrance of water and freshly cut grass to mingle with that of the flowers. Polaris was barely visible over the calm, smooth water. Later that day she and her husband, Sam, would be out yachting on the lake with friends to watch the fireworks.

Now, a few hours after midnight, everything was quiet. Rubbing her stomach a bit, smiling down at the pronounced bump, she'd tell her son at the picnic they planned for the afternoon about the baby she'd have in early winter.

She glanced away from the tranquil lake and to the den door. Sam kept himself locked away in there too much these days. No matter, she'd done her duty, provided one son and another child on the way. Mary had her own life, water skiing in the summer—well that wouldn't happen until next summer—the library committee, and raising funds for the hospital Sam and his brothers maintained.

It was the lot of the rich, the debutants, like her. Marry well, look good on your husband's arm, add to his business, be a pillar of the community, an example. She could do those things. In fact, she was more than happy to do those things and never share a bed with Dr. Sam Shards again. He provided her a good home, plenty of money, and a fat trust fund for her children. She had friends and more than one offer for potential lovers, a life of her own. Maybe it wasn't the fairytale ending she'd dreamt of as a girl, but it was a good, stable life. That's what she'd wanted, marry more money than her father had and be secure.

Turning away, she was about to close the doors when the sound of someone clearing their throat drew her attention.

"Who is there?"

"Good evening, Mary."

Stepping from the shadows of the tall lilac bushes lining the one side of the patio behind the house, Mary squinted at the man.

"Do I know—" Taking a step back into the house, "It's you."

He followed her into the room, stopping just inside the French doors, eyes drifting to the hallway and stairs beyond the living room. "It's been ten years, but little Sammy, he's not a baby anymore. Seems I'm about seven years too late." He leaned forward and sniffed her neck.

Stalking around her, until he stood in the middle of the room, he smiled. It was feral and sent shivers through Mary. Eyes sliding to her stomach he sighed again and clasped his hands together in front of him.

"What do you want?" She sounded far braver than she felt. For a brief second she wondered why Sam hadn't heard, but then he didn't hear a lot of things going on in this house.

Waving grandly at the room and the land outside, "You have all this and your sister. The only thing I asked in return was an invitation in to visit your child. Your _infant_ child." Eyes flashing yellow, he smirked. "Guess things aren't too happy in this house, all these years and only one and a half kids. Pity." This time his eyes rose to the ceiling. He stopped directly under her son's room. "You broke the deal, Mary."

Mary's eyes followed. "No." She whispered. "He's a little boy."

The man with yellow eyes shrugged. "Not for long."

She didn't really give it much thought. Mary flung herself at him, scratching at his eyes with her nails. Bone chilling laughter erupted from him as he simply lifted one hand and tossed her away as if she was a rag doll.

Pain rocketed across her middle then blossomed out to encompass her entire body. She tried to fight, to scream, to do anything, but it was impossible. The only thing Mary could do was mourn her unborn child and hope her son was spared. Finally, the vague sensation of damp across her body and cold in her hands and feet combined with the thought there was so much blood were the last for Mary Shards.

**Present Day**

It was Dean Winchester's deepest, darkest, dirtiest secret, and every time Sam witnessed it he was amazed. Simply and utterly amazed. Standing in the middle of a nice, well cut lawn, open book in one hand, Sam glanced around, seeking out his brother.

There he was, right where Sam expected him to be. Dean Winchester, world's greatest hunter, then, now and forever—at least in Sam's opinion—caretaker, protector, slayer of demons, the man who'd probably taken a poke at the Devil's nose when he was in Hell, was now standing amongst baby clothes, old dishes and ugly knickknacks…bartering.

Dean loved yard sales. He'd even barter for porn. If the price was fifty cents, Dean felt the need to pay twenty-five, and usually did. The fact they mostly frequented yard sales run by women or gay men had never gotten past Sam. Dean knew what he was doing, flirting and using that disarming smile of his, and today a limp was added in for more sympathy. If it had a pulse and was interested in men, Dean had it wrapped around his little finger. Not to mention he had himself a bargain.

With a shrug and smile, Sam glanced down at the book; he'd pay the requested dollar. Dean would have it for him for a nickel. Sam couldn't complain, heck Dean's talents for stretching a buck had kept Sam in clothes, rarely hungry, and up to date on any technological device he'd wanted for his entire life.

The fact Dean handed over a five-dollar bill for a box tucked under his arm—clearly marked five dollars—more than a little piqued Sam's curiosity. Juggling the book, he arched up on his toes for a better look, but the box was closed.

Hobbling across the grass, stopping for a look at a few other things along the way, Dean finally made his way to Sam's side. Leaning over a bit, shifting the box against his side and rubbing the spot he'd just removed it from, Dean glanced at the book. "You're not paying a dollar for that."

"It's my money."

"Says the guy who doesn't hustle it. Gimme that."

Before Sam could do anything, Dean snatched the book and moaned and groaned his way back to the woman he'd handed over five dollars for a box to. Sam watched as she flushed, then tilted her head, giggled. She squeezed Dean's bicep—twice. The words _my brother…curious kid…gets nervous in the car…just me to take care of him_…drifted at Sam. Christ, he was never going to live down the temper tantrum in the Impala, the one just a few weeks ago.

The woman took the book and set it on top of the box, patted Dean's arm—it was sickening the way she leered at Dean's ass when he walked away—and called a cheery good-bye to them. Sam waggled four fingers at her and offered her halfhearted smile.

Dean was grinning like he'd won the lottery when he handed Sam the book. "There ya go, Sammy."

"Want me to carry that?" Sam reached for the box. His curiosity quadrupled when Dean shoved it away and partially behind his back. "It's just a box, and there's a surprise in it for you."

"You fell through a few floors, um _three_ I think." It hadn't been one of Dean's most graceful moments.

"I can carry a box, Sam. If I have to, I can carry you too."

"I was just saying—"

"You're not seeing what's in here till I'm ready to give it to you. I paid five of _my_ hard earned dollars, not to mention the price of this…" he took the book from Sam and stopped, taking a good look at it. "Sam, this is just gross. I _paid_ for this?"

"No, you let a sixty year old woman grope you for it."

"Payment is payment, doesn't have to be monetary."

Sam snorted and trailed behind Dean to the car. "Think about it Dean, all those murders, serial killers, unsolved, uncaught. Take that one," Sam's finger pointed to the page Dean was staring at. "Mary Shards, over half a century later and still her murder was never solved. I've always wondered, now more than ever, do demons and this war have something to do with things like that? Bizarre, inhuman acts committed by humans against humans. Maybe not as much human as everyone thinks?"

Dean stopped, snapped the book shut and handed it back to Sam. He arched one eyebrow and spent a few seconds looking Sam up and down with an intense enough gaze Sam started to wonder if his clothes had melted away or turned some embarrassing shade of candy pink. "You honestly think that?"

Shrugging, Sam sniffed and wiped one hand across his nose. Stupid, dusty old junk at these things. "It's a theory."

"Well, aren't you just Mr. Cheery." Dean shook his head, opened the passenger door for Sam and shuffled to the driver's side. The box was placed carefully in the back seat. Turning to Sam as he started the car, Dean wagged a finger at him. "No peeking, Sammy."

Sam flipped around to face forward. "I wasn't peeking."

"You were peeking."

"I wasn't—" This time Sam was cut short by sharp, wet coughs that rattled up from his chest in quick waves, "—eeking."

Dean gave him a more serious appraising look. "What you say we find a motel for the night?"

Sam nodded and smiled, settling back he read his book.

**Pine View Motel, Strongsville, Ohio**

They had been running since Cutter's Landing. For nearly two weeks now, the two of them had been living out of the Impala, gas stations and diner bathrooms, rarely staying at the local motels for more than a few hours a night. Running from what exactly, Sam wasn't entirely sure anymore. He understood Dean's fears, knew that when Dean was scared for his brother's safety, this was exactly what he did. Sam had been expecting Dean's on-the-move behavior to ease down a little. Especially when the money ran out. But Dean had risked hustling pool in a few bars in the same town, the same night, and had almost walked away with a broken nose and bruised jaw for his rushed and dicey efforts.

The money had afforded them another week on the road.

Sam hoped a hunt would slow them down, and found one as soon as he could after the pool hustling disaster of Terre Haute. A common salt and burn in a house anything but common in its condemned state was what had been available along the Ohio-Indiana border. Dean had rushed the hunt, stating the entire time they needed to be on the road by morning, and how they should burn the whole house and do the community a favor; remove the eyesore. That was when Sam figured the house had somehow taken on a life of its own, and in the name of self-preservation had swallowed Dean through the weak floorboards of the third floor.

Sam had thought he'd lost Dean all over again, never wanting to relive those terrifying moments where he'd sprinted to the first floor, only to find Dean swearing, coughing, surrounded by a miasma of dust and debris, a bed from the second floor having broken his fall and joined him on his descent to the first. He was ordering Sam to get the gasoline, searching his pockets for his lighter angrily, hell bent on revenge; ignoring the fact he'd ripped open his leg on the way down. He played it off as long as he could…until he was reduced to having to ask Sam to help him move, to get off the bed.

They burned that house, watched it go up in a glorious ball of flame, Dean grinning while it was reduced to pitiful ashes. A few stitches in a rest stop bathroom, and Dean swore he was good to go.

Then they were back on the road again.

The yard sale had been a godsend as far as Sam was concerned. Dean's eyes had lit up like they hadn't in a long time and Sam welcomed the small break. Now he had something to read, and Dean had his mystery box. From the sound of things, they would be staying in an actual room for the night. He was silently hoping they would be able to stay longer than that, even though the set of Dean's jaw and the determination sparked in his eyes told a different story. Sam wanted him to rest. Sam was sure demons were behind the events in Cutter's Landing, and the things Sam and Dean had learned about each other. There was no denying they were going to have to fight this war. They could, as long as they stuck it out together, but how long were they going to keep running?

Dean had pulled into the Pine View and after grabbing the keys for their room he'd ducked back inside the Impala to grab his box, eyeing Sam suspiciously.

"Did you look?"

"No," Sam started, a laugh burbling roughly inside his lungs and exiting as a cough instead. There had been a lot of dust at the garage sale, and he'd been telling Dean he was okay, but on the drive there, Sam wasn't even sure he could believe that lie.

Dean didn't look like he believed it either.

As Sam started into another coughing fit, he groaned and rolled his large shoulders forward, folding into himself before pushing open the door. He'd been noticing this coming on for a while, ignoring it. Those last few nights in the backseat had been cold, the tickle and burn in his throat, the wet heaviness in his chest, all signs he'd been trying to be blissfully unaware were even there. One sidelong look at Dean told him that he should have said something sooner.

Hunters couldn't get sick.

Dean's shoulders sloped, the lines in his face deepening as he studied Sam, who tried to give him a reassuring smile. It came off weary, he could feel it, and saw it reflected in Dean's stance as he leaned into the car. Sam knew where Dean's mind was going and he shook his head, ticking up a shoulder. He was fine. It wasn't Dean's fault. Sam could have made him stop at any time; let him know he needed the rest. He'd just been waiting to see how long it would take Dean to stop on his own. Sam knew that look, the one that edged his brother's eyes and aged him at least ten years. Sam knew the Pine View Motel was going to be their new home for a while.

"I think we should stay a while," Dean said. "Get you rested up."

"I'm fine," Sam shrugged, shutting the passenger side door. His voice had cracked up at the end as he swallowed another cough. "You need to get off that leg."

"'M fine," Dean sighed. The hobbled and painful looking gait to Dean's walk told a completely different story.

Sam shook his head, grabbing the duffels. "Whatever, man."

Suddenly the ache and chill that had set into Sam over the last half hour was welcomed. He decided to embrace the damn cold if it meant Dean was going to lay down on a bed tonight and hopefully stay off his leg for the next few days. Sam let the subsequent cough come as it wished, let it rattle around in his lungs as catalyst of change. They could stop running now.

Sam set the duffels on the table next to where Dean had dropped the mystery box, and started to rifle through them for a few hoodies. He'd slipped two over his head and was working on the third when he caught Dean's look.

"What?"

"Sure you're fine," Dean shook his head.

"Just a little cold in here," Sam smiled sweetly through the lie. "You gonna let me check your leg? I brought in the stuff to change the bandages."

Dean shifted his eyes to the box. "After I show you what I got you."

Sam recognized the not so smooth diversion of his attention. Dean wasn't going to dodge Sam all night about that leg. But for now, mostly because Sam could feel this cold hitting fast, and arguing would only prolong how long they danced around this box, he relented and waved at the mangled and greasy cardboard.

"What did you get me?"

Dean grinned mischievously and Sam huffed. "If that is a huge box of porn, dude…"

Sam watched his brother dig into the box and hold up a dog-eared and worn-out leather book. He tossed it to Sam and waited, looking pleased with himself. It only took a few pages as Sam thumbed through it for him to realize what it was his brother had found.

"This is a hunter's journal," Sam's awe wasn't hidden from his voice. "You _found_ a hunter's journal at a yard sale?"

Dean nodded. "I knew I'd hit paydirt right away, and the beauty is that you can actually read this one, unlike Dad's chicken scratch. Thought you'd like another resource."

Sam poked his nose over the edge of the box and saw that there was more there: a hat and one really old looking camera. Sam tried to date the junk, putting it around the 1950's. "Why did you have to get the rest of the stuff?"

Dean pulled out the fedora, flipped it around in his hand and then set it on his head, grinning. "Because I look damn good in a fedora."

"Okay, Dr. Jones," Sam smirked.

Dean shrugged. "Woman would only sell me the whole box. I wanted the journal, so I got these groovy door prizes as a bonus."

Sam huffed and lifted the camera, being careful, feeling like it would bust apart in his hands. It looked like one of the old newspaper photographer's cameras. He looked through the dusty lens at Dean in his fedora and shook his head. "Trash and treasure…" he muttered.

His brother was like a kid with that fedora. Sam was wondering if Dean would start wearing it out in public. It was going to be at least a day before his brother relinquished the dirty, old hat. Dean had set himself up against the headboard, arms crossed, fedora down over his eyes like he was ready to take a nap.

Sam took up the other bed, journal in hand, plopping down onto the creaky mattress. Sam didn't care. After all their traveling, the noisy spring mattress felt like memory foam, and he let his achy muscles sink into the grooves.

Dean had been right about the journal's legibility, and Sam was impressed by the organization and the span of time it covered. Over twenty years of this man's life were archived, interspersed with the things he'd learned on various hunts. Sam flipped through the newspaper articles and pictures, coming across the names Jake and Benny more than a few times. He realized it was written from Jake's point of view and two of them had faced a lot of the same things Dean and he had: wendigos, women in white, poltergeists, and demons.

Curious how the two started hunting, Sam went to the first entry and dove in. They weren't always hunters and had lived somewhat normal lives up through the early fifties. He skimmed the entries, gleaming from them that Jake and Benny Colt were brothers orphaned during the Depression, born in 1925 and 1929. Jake had been with the Cleveland Police Department since his early teens and had eventually gone into the force, working two jobs and as a foot cop for a while to get his brother Ben through school. He became a detective in his late twenties and was able to dodge the war because of sketchy records, which had allowed Jake to stay and take care of Ben.

Sam read Jake's story with an eerie sense of familiarity, likening how the guy never had a childhood, and was always looking out for his brother to someone else he knew. Sam's eyes slid over to where Dean was, arms still folded across his chest, breaths even. He'd been quiet for a while.

"Dean?"

"Mmm."

"Just checking," Sam said. His eyes glanced down at the next entry in the journal and his heart caught with excitement. What were the odds?

"Dean, there's an entry here for July 4th, 1954."

"Yeah…" Dean mumbled, shifting his weight.

"The other book you got me… I was just reading about Mary Shards' murder on this date," Sam said, skimming the entry quickly. "Jake Colt was a detective before he was a hunter, and he worked that case. Listen to this_: I've been pulling for Benny to take photos for us, make more than he's making at the Press or at least on the side. Today's his chance, and I'll be walking the kid through my crime scenes this week. Not sure he's got the stomach, but I know Benny's got the heart to get done what he's got to get done…_Then he writes later that day about arriving at the Shard's Lake Road home: _The smell of blood was so thick, I hadn't even made it to the front porch before I could tell this was personal. Benny was whiter than I'd ever seen him before we passed through that door. Welcome to your first day, Ben. He held in there. I was proud of him. But that woman…there aren't any words to_ _describe what happened to that poor woman…_"

A light snore escaped from under the fedora, and Sam looked over at Dean, shaking his head. He'd probably passed out right after Sam had started reading. At least he was resting. Sam set down the journal and looked at the clock. It was almost five p.m. He sniffed at the moisture collecting along the lining of his nostrils, tightening his arms around himself as he tried to shake the cold ache in his joints and core. He knew that soon enough he'd be burning up. Stupid colds. Stupid fevers.

He'd grabbed a few blankets from the shelf, draping one over "Indy," and adding the other to his bed, the chill driving him crazy. His lids were heavy, and he knew a nap wouldn't kill him. They could go get something to eat when Dean woke up. He closed his eyes, setting some internal clock for a half an hour, but not two breaths later he was blissfully oblivious to such things as time.

**July 4, 1954 6:15 AM, Bay Village, Ohio**

Jake Colt guided his car around police cars and the coroner's wagon, stopping along the side of the wide drive and about halfway down from the house. Some had pulled their vehicles onto the lawn, but he refused to do that, be so disrespectful. Besides, his car might get stuck in the damp ground under the well-watered grass. The 1937 Chevy Sedan was heavier than many of the other vehicles already assembled in the drive and along the street near the Shards' household.

"If you'd give up this old car and we could get something new and sporty, and _smaller_ you wouldn't have to worry about parking." His brother, Ben, seemed to read his mind.

Jake's head twisted around so he could watch the man in the passenger seat fiddle with his camera. "Ha! This baby will still be getting you from one place to the next for another twenty years." He watched as Ben reached in the back seat for another camera bag, hauled it to his lap and started rooting around like a dog digging for its last bone. "Benny," he laid one hand softly on Ben's shoulder.

Ben's head turned to the side, but he didn't look up. Dark hazel eyes slid to meet Jake's gaze, the brown strands of hair dripping in his eyes were impatiently brushed away. It was that fast. Jake's kid brother stopped looking twenty-five and started looking about five. "I think another black car, though." Ben mumbled more to his camera than at Jake.

"We're not getting another car, Benny, this one is just fine." It was one of the two things he and Ben had left of their parents, or any family for that matter. Jake's fingers squeezed. "You don't have to do this, there's plenty of other—"

"Yes. I do." Ben straightened and pushed against the car door until it was open, and he was standing on the lawn. "Even if it's not what you want for me. It's what I'm going to do."

Stepping free of his car, Jake grabbed his suit jacket and hat. He took a deep breath, appreciating the fresh lake breeze and scent of lilacs in the air. Jacket and hat on, he stepped away from the car and waited for Ben to join him. "Ah, murder in the morning."

Ben pulled up short next to him and openly gaped. "You're kidding, right?"

"Benny, you take this stuff to heart too much, get yourself wrapped up in it, and it'll kill you from the inside out. I've seen that happen to too many good men."

Nodding solemnly, Ben fell into step beside him as they walked to the front of the house. Jake let his hand slide from his brother's shoulder as they approached the front door. Everyone there, at least everyone whose opinion mattered to Jake, knew how he felt about Ben being here, doing this, but he didn't want to embarrass the kid by coddling him either.

Jake had to be here, he was a detective with the Cleveland Police Department, and this was a huge case. It was more than a compliment and honor to be involved in this investigation. That didn't mean he had to like it. It didn't mean he had to like his kid brother seeing what he was about to see either.

Ben was up the stairs a few steps ahead of Jake, forever the curious little boy who had to see _everything_ and always asking _why_. Jake pushed thoughts of the boy he'd raised deeper down in his mind, and concentrated on the here and now. They made their way through the front part of the house. Mary Shards' body was in a room at the back.

Ben's eyes widened and he turned sideways to keep from getting run over when one of the younger uniformed cops ran by, hand over mouth. The poor guy barely made it outside before tossing the contents of his stomach everywhere. Jake felt sorry for the poor kid who was probably about Ben's age. The first ones were always the worst.

The smell hit them then. The smell was what always did the new guys in. Jake could see where the body lay, not everything but enough to know where she was in the room. Ben stopped in the doorway, all six-foot-four of him, which meant he pretty much took up the entire doorway.

Stepping up close enough to Ben he could talk to him and not be heard by anyone else, Jake kept his voice low and spoke into his ear. "I think you're supposed to put the camera up by your eye." With two knuckles pressed into Ben's side, Jake nudged him forward a few steps.

Most the color dropped from Ben's face. His eyes went from Jake to the camera held loosely at his side. "Y-yeah."

Jake closed his eyes for a beat, took a deep breath and opened his eyes, looking right at the body. "Just take the pictures, Benny. Don't think about her, take the pictures just like you did of the buildings and railroad tracks you'd drag me to."

"There's so much blood." Ben exhaled.

"It's just red stuff." Gripping Ben's shoulder for a few seconds, Jake gave him another slight push toward the body. "I didn't work extra shifts pounding a beat and putting up with that crap security job with those annoying socialites and their bratty kids down at the Halle Building during Christmases to put you through school for nothing. You wanted to do this, and I got you the chance with the PD so you'd make more than at the Press. Don't you dare let me down."

Ben visibly jerked at Jake's last words, but it worked. He took a few deep breaths and raised the camera, getting a few shots. "Never mind the fact you took half those socialites to bed." Ben muttered, a few adjustments to one of the camera's dials, and he took more pictures.

Jake grinned and let the flat part of his fingers press a bit further into Ben's side for a few seconds more before he stepped back a few paces. If Ben could sling smartass remarks, he was doing okay. Another minute and he was moving around, getting shots from different angles.

"Told ya he'd do fine."

The voice behind him and the hand slapping his back made Jake jump. That earned a snicker from the man behind him.

"Del—"

"Captain Gareau to you when we're on the job."

Jake rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Guess no matter what you do it seems Ben is bound and determined to be a cop just like his big brother."

Snorting to cover his smile, Jake couldn't help feeling a swell of pride in his chest. That's exactly what Ben was trying to do, be a cop, merely a different type of cop.

His pride was overwhelmed for a moment with an anxious knot that had tied up in his gut. Benny always looking up to him had been the reason he'd had to fake that limp during the war. Ben was tall enough back then, would have lied about his age, gone to war just to be there alongside Jake. He couldn't have that. He still got shit from Del about that faith healer in Akron. Fake limp, fake healing, what was the big deal? In the end, he knew Del saw it his way. Jake would have fought, but not if it cost him the only family he had.

Ben stopped and straightened, glancing at Jake and Del. He'd been about to step over the body but was clearly now seeking approval. He may have had the entire procedure book memorized since he'd been fifteen or so, but he'd never actually been to a crime scene and Jake knew he wouldn't want to disturb anything.

Del nodded and waved one hand indicating Ben was fine doing what he was doing. "You did good with him, Jake. Ben's a great kid even if you did make him read all those comic books."

"I didn't—" Jake pressed his lips together and shook his head again when Del turned and walked off to the coroner. Before he'd put on a uniform, Jake worked cleaning the police department downtown offices. The only books he could afford to buy Ben were comics. More than once he found comic books, school supplies, and other odds and ends _thrown away_ in a trashcan. Sometimes it was the other cops; most times it'd been Del Gareau making sure Jake could provide some extras for Ben. A lot of the guys at the station had looked out for them. Giving Jake opportunities to make something of a life for Ben and himself.

Using the pretext of examining the scene for evidence, Jake made sure to stick close to Ben. He wouldn't have blamed Ben if he needed to get out of there, but he wasn't surprised he was holding his own. Still, Jake stood at a safe distance, gaze shifting between his brother and the body, and around the room.

"Any witnesses? Leads?" Jake asked Del.

"A few…nothing we can use."

Jake tilted his head. "Why do you say that?"

"Trust me," he said with an emphatic wave toward the front door. "When I asked one guy to describe the man he saw leaving the house, he told me the guy's eyes were some strange color. If you ask me, someone's been watching too many creature movies. Too _Black Lagoon_ for me."

Jake arched a brow then smirked. "Okay then."

Ben and he had caught that show. Jake had enjoyed watching Ms. Adams prance around the screen in her bathing suit, running from the creature. Ben had wanted to discuss the likelihood there were things like that out there. Maybe Del was right about all those comic books.

Jake looked back at Ben and something else caught his eye. A small face in the doorway staring in at the body on the ground, eyes frozen to the spot…

"Shit," Jake breathed. "Who's supposed to be watching the kid?"

Jake crossed the room and maneuvered the boy back outside, closing the door behind him. This was the woman's son, Sam Jr. Kneeling in front of the kid, he could see the hollowed out depth to his glassy eyes. His gaze was still on the closed door, and Jake tried to put himself between the middle distance and the image that had to be seared into the poor kid's brain. Sam had been the one to find the body.

"Hey, kiddo, you need to stay out here, okay?"

"She's not sleeping, is she?" Sam asked.

For a moment he couldn't think, Sam's eyes melting away to Benny's and the smell of fire and singed flesh, a painfully similar question asked through large tears and trembling lips. _They're not coming back, are they, Jake?_

Jake shook his head and sucked in a breath as the boy slammed into him, wrapping small arms around his neck. Again, Jake could feel the weight of Benny's arms as he ran them through the burning halls of their house. He closed his eyes, breathing in the lake water air, trying to reorient himself. He straightened and picked the boy up, looking around for an officer, wanting to hand Sam off.

That was when he saw Sam's father, getting loud and angry. Dr. Shards claimed he'd been chasing the man after he'd heard a commotion, had fought with him. Now Jake could see he was being handcuffed and pushed into the back of a car. His protests reached his son who broke from his trance and looked back toward the cars. The boy wriggled free from Jake's grasp and started to run after his father. Before Jake could catch up to him, another officer stepped in to pick him up while he screamed and struggled. Christ, what a mess…

"Were you the one watching him?" Jake barked.

"S-sorry. His aunt is coming…I turned my back for just—"

"Get him out of here and keep him away from the house!" Jake ordered, pointing toward the cars along the road. He wanted the boy as far from the scene as he could get.

He paused at the door, taking a second to clear the memories that shimmied through him of the night Ben and he lost everything but each other. Here he was almost twenty years later and still haunted and unable to escape. He pressed his fingers into the bridge of his nose, took another deep breath, and ignoring Sam's cries, pushed open the door.

* * *

Ben couldn't mess this up. He knew what lengths his brother had gone to, to be able to get him here. It was why he was trying as hard as he was to still the tremor in his hands, wrapping them tighter around the camera until they were bloodless white. He felt Jake's eyes on him, Del's too, and he didn't want to foul up the pride he could see in both of their faces. He was being tediously careful with where he put his steps and with the content of his shots. If there was anything useful to help them solve this poor woman's case then he was going to find it and have the photo evidence to back it up.

Jake had left him alone to go get the boy who'd been looking in on his dead mother. Ben's stomach had twisted at the look of devastation, and in combination with the metallic blood and some other peculiar putrid scent, he almost lost his stomach's contents. He'd paused, placing a hand to his mouth to keep the bile down, shooting a weak smile to Del who looked worried. He set back to taking pictures to let him know he was okay, and he didn't have to worry about him, even though the absence of Jake's presence was blaring like a siren through his head. Del had nodded and had taken his leave, giving Ben some unwanted one on one time with the body.

He could do this. He didn't need his brother or Del to be able to prove himself. The pictures would speak for themselves.

That didn't stop the wave of relief that washed over him when Jake returned, looking worn. He was about to ask if he was okay when that same scent struck out at his nose again, causing him to gag and put a hand to the back of his mouth.

"Do you smell that?" he asked, on the verge of retching.

Jake narrowed his eyes. "You mean besides a couple hours of death and the blood?"

"Something smells like…like rotten eggs."

That received a weird look from Jake and he shrugged, crouching down near Mary's face. He'd been saving this picture for last, trying not to look her in the eyes. He wasn't ready for them, for the absence of light, the last moments of fear etched into the blown pupils. He swallowed against his constricting throat and shot the photo.

Something caught his eye at the crook of her unnaturally bent neck. Beneath her was a small pile of yellow powder. He touched it before thinking and drew it back to his nose, recoiling. That was where the smell was coming from.

"Jake," Ben said, turning toward his brother. "Come look at this."

He turned back to the woman, just in time to see her dead eyes were on him, pupil's fixed.

"It's you."

The words gurgled up from a throat steeped in fluid and then all he could see were yellow-eyes and blood, Mary's screaming shredding through his very soul…

* * *

Sam startled awake violently, flailing his arms out to stop himself from spilling over the side of his bed in a bundled mess of sheets and disorientation. He steadied himself, and instinctively sought out Dean, eyes meeting his brother's as he too was up like someone had run an electrical current through his body. Sam watched Dean take off the fedora, Jake's fedora, and stare at it like it would come to life at any moment, expression haunted before he turned wide eyes back to Sam.

In unison and completely at the shock of the other, they both blurted out. "Dude, I just had the most freaky-ass dream."

Blinking, seeming to soak in what Sam was saying, Dean shuddered and threw the fedora at the end of the bed.

TBC...


	2. Chapter 2

CW—Chapter 2

_It's you. It's you. It's you_…

Tell Dean, tell Dean. Can't tell Dean. Yellow-eyes and his mother snarling out _it's you_ right in front of Sam and Sam's crib. How Azazel laughed as Mary Winchester slid up the wall, snapped his fingers and told Sam he didn't want to see that part. He'd not stopped Sam from seeing blood being dripped in his mouth, or from Sam knowing his mother recognized a _freaking demon_!

Trying to get a few deep breaths was seriously hampered by his left lung trying to exit his body through his nose. That woman he'd been dreaming about, the same woman he'd been reading about earlier had looked right at him…Ben Colt…_whothehellever_…and said _it's you_ loud and clear. How could she do that?

"Sam. SAM!"

Jerking around to face Dean, Sam sat gripping his blanket like a two-year-old and stared at his brother.

"Are you _listening_ to me?"

Sam nodded spasmodically. _It's you…it's me…it's you_!

Dean's head tipped to one side and frowned. "What did I say?"

"I dunno." Sam breathed out fast. He had no clue, and Dean always saw right through him anyway, might as well confess his indiscretion now and get it over with.

"Dude, there were cops and really old, incredibly cool cars and a murder and—" Dean threw a sock at him. "Sam?"

"Cops, cool cars, murder…got it." Oh and the fact that woman who was supposed to be dead looked right at him and said _it's you_! It's me. Sam was definitely losing his mind.

"I was wearing this, I mean he was wearing this," Dean pointed to the fedora desperately hanging onto the corner of his bed. "It was mine, I mean his." Dean was on his feet, arms waving around. He looked like an over excited toddler on a sugar high. "I—I mean him—we were driving around in this _schweet_-ass '37 Chevy Master, a black one. There was this murder, I saw the body; it was like I was there and was supposed to solve some murder of some woman who died two freaking ass decades before I even thought of being born. You were there, but not you, some kid named Benny Colt. It was me, but it wasn't me, it was some guy named Jake Colt, but it was like that TV show, remember we used to watch it, _Quantum Leap_, that guy would be someone else, but not really and I could see you, but I looked like some other guy, who was devilishly as handsome as me, almost and—"

"INHALE!"

Dean straightened, snapped his mouth shut and stared down at Sam. He reached out and poked Sam's shoulder. "Sammy? You okay?"

"Yeah…sure…no…I dunno." Sam looked up and tried very hard not to shake. Instead he sneezed. "I-I w-was th-there. Ben, I was Ben, or he was me." Sam stopped and sagged, coughing out a deep sigh. "My head hurts." Another sneeze. "It was like I was part of that guy, Ben Colt. I was there but had to do what he did and see what he saw. Feel what he felt." Sam's voice trailing off at the end sounded odd to his own ears. He wasn't surprised at how Dean's face morphed from freaked over what had happened to freaked over Sam.

Fingers fumbling loose from the blanket, he picked up the journal. "I was reading this to you. I didn't realize right away you'd crashed out on me." Sam opened the book to the date of Mary Shards' murder, turned it around, and handed it to Dean. "I was tired too," he shrugged. "So I decided to shut my eyes for a few minutes, thought I could catch a nap before we went for eats, and when I woke up I was wearing a suit that was too big and carting around a camera and taking pictures of—" _It's you_! Sam's voice caught and stayed in his throat. He bit down on his lip and stared at the carpeting between the beds.

Dean's hand rested on his shoulder. "Sam." Dean's fingers tightened around his shoulder and gave an insistent shake. "Sammy, look at me."

Sam looked up. Dean sat on the bed beside him.

"Are you okay? I know that was one grisly image, all that blood and guts hanging out, but you've seen bodies worse off. Real ones."

"Did you see her move? Or hear a woman screaming? See any yellow eyes?"

Dean shook his head silently, quirked an eyebrow at Sam and lifted one hand up, letting it drop to his thigh a second later.

"I saw—Ben saw—and found sulfur. Right under Mary's head. The whole place stunk of demon."

"Yeah, I remember the smell alright." Dean's hand pulled away from Sam's shoulder, he started flipping through the old journal. Pulling something from between the pages a smile spread slowly across Dean's face. "Look at this, Sammy."

Sam took the offered photograph of two men standing in front of a 1937 black Chevy Masters. "That's them. They were there with us. They _were_ us. We were _them_."

"Great," Dean snorted a laugh, took the picture from Sam and replaced it in the journal. "Only we could find a haunted hunter's journal. At a _yard_ _sale_!"

"Technically you found it. I was standing around minding my own business reading a book." Sam smiled. "That's not the weirdest part though. There was a demon there, Dean, we both saw the sulfur and how her body was…" Sam had to stop and take more deep breaths to steady his hands. He continued on quietly, "We both saw it. This murder is famous, it's been famous for the past sixty some odd years. I wonder if they found out. If that's why Jake and Ben got into hunting?"

"I don't know." Dean stood up, tossed the book into the box on the table across the room. "What I do know is what just happened, it happened and I'm not sure I want it to happen again. We _went_ there, back then." Dean faked a shiver and gave Sam a soft punch to his arm. "Time travel is for the birds. Not to mention creepy as Hell, and _I'd_ know."

Sam chuckled and grinned, feeling some of the tension ease away. "I'm not sure it was really a haunting sort of thing. More of a message maybe. A way to put the pieces together."

"Huh?"

Drawing in another wheezing breath, Sam steeled himself and took the plunge. "There was more of it for me. I was there a few minutes longer I think. The last bits are more broken up, like a real dream, but I saw _it_."

"What?"

"Yellow-eyes. No body attached, just yellow eyes. I felt them watching me, as if I was seeing what Mary Shards saw right before she died. We can use it, Dean, use that journal to find out more about Azazel."

"Yeah, 'cause that's a name I want to keep on hearing. If I never hear it again, it'll be too soon." Dean heaved a sigh and Sam knew he'd hit a chord or three. "But, you're right. This," Dean waved one hand in the general direction of the journal, "feels like what we need to do. It feels right. If that makes sense?"

"It does."

Christ, he had to tell Dean. He had to find a way to do what? Break his brother's heart and drive him away forever by saying a demon fed me his blood. I'm tainted and bad and wrong. Worse yet, he was going to have to tell Dean that the mother he worshipped had some involvement with a demon, with _the_ demon who killed her?

Sam's stomach lurched violently and his chest constricted down to half the space needed for his lungs to work. He couldn't get the words out. He _couldn't_. A flicker of hope was if the same demon killed Mary Shards, maybe, just maybe Sam could find out why and tell Dean all the details.

_It's you_.

Dean would hate him. Hate the abomination that was Sam Winchester, but at least Dean would know the truth. Sam would know the truth; he had to.

"What if some people have to, you know, maybe let demons do things…?" He didn't even know how to ask the question.

"Anyone who _lets_ a demon do anything to them or their family or anything is lower than the damn demons, Sam!"

Dean's sudden explosion, while not unexpected, still had Sam cringing away. Blinking rapidly, Sam wanted to squish the tears threatening to overflow back down.

Trying to breathe deep did nothing but make cause harsh, ragged coughs to be expelled. He didn't fight the urge to double over.

_It's you_.

Dean was going to be lost to Sam all over again. The only difference was Dean wasn't going to have to die to do it. A warm hand rubbing between his shoulder blades made him start. "I'm okay," He barely wheezed the words out.

"Yeeaahh. Sure you are." Dean patted his back a few more times. "Keep your ass sitting right there. No reading that—" He pointed to the box and journal, "—_thing_ until I get back, and then not till I _say_ you can."

_It's you_.

Sam looked up and nodded. Dean swam in waves in front of him. A box of tissue landed on the bed next to him. Images of Dean's shattered expression when he found out…Sam had to tell him. Sam couldn't tell him. Sam wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

That didn't seem to be happening either.

"I'm going to go get you a gallon of Nyquil and something to eat. What sounds good?"

"Nothing." Wasn't that the truth too? Not only could Sam not taste anything, his stomach bounced around like a deranged ping-pong ball from all the thoughts hopping through his head.

"I don't care if nothing sounds good. I'm getting food, and you're damn well eating it even if I have to hold you down and force-feed you. Don't think for two seconds I won't either." Dean's voice was harsh but his eyes were soft and worried.

Sam nodded. He watched Dean walk out the door and couldn't help wondering when he'd do that for real, when Sam would see Dean leave for the last time. When the sound of the Impala rumbling away reached Sam's ears, he pushed off the bed. Grabbing his laptop, Sam booted it up. He was going to find out a few more details about Mary Shards' murder if he could.

A few Google searches later and Sam's blood was chunks of ice banging around his entire body. Both Samuel's and Mary's parents died not too long after Mary, which considering their ages wasn't so unusual. It was the other people that made Sam want to puke his intestines onto the floor. No siblings alive, no cousins, no aunts or uncles, no one. They were all dead. Anyone who could answer a question about Mary Shards died long ago. It was as if Mary Shards' life had been wiped away.

Exactly like Mary Winchester's life.

_It's you_.

Ruby's words to check out his own mother's friends and relatives rang through his head.

_It's you_.

Shutting down the laptop and gently closing it, Sam stumbled to the bathroom. He sat there, shaking, trying not to cry and playing scene after scene of what his brother was going to do when he found out about their mother, about Sam, in his head until the room spun around him.

_It's you_.

Dean's hand banging on the door and his voice asking if Sam was alive or if he'd fallen in the toilet jolted Sam somewhat back to reality. He'd have to cope. He had to get himself together and just freaking _deal_ with this however it turned out. Then he was free to crawl away and die quietly…and alone.

* * *

Coming back to a quiet room, when Sam wasn't curled up in bed sound asleep, was never a good thing. There had to be _some_ noise, the drone of the television, the furious clicking of laptop computer keys, some comment flying his way about wondering if he had to go to the next town to get their food.

There was the muted silence as soon as he shut the door and nothing else, and Dean's preliminary search for Sam in the room returned zilch.

"Sam?"

He set down the pharmacy and food he'd collected, preparing for all worse case scenarios when it came to Sam and this new development. Sam rarely got sick and when he did, well, it wasn't anywhere in the ballpark of pretty. Kid had this unparalleled, superhuman immune system, and then every once in a while he broke down and seemed to catch everything he'd been dodging over the last year, all at once.

This time, Dean couldn't help but feel responsible. Sleeping in the Impala hadn't been necessary, even if it had felt necessary to him at the time. Dean was still inwardly berating himself for running after Cutter's Landing. He hadn't run like that since River Grove, Oregon. The result of that had him waking up to a quiet motel room, kind of like this, Sam gone…

Putting his heart in check, trying to grasp and control frayed nerves at that thought, Dean reminded himself that this was different. There was too much that had happened between then and now for Sam to just take off. Then again…

The bathroom door was closed and he slammed his fist into it a few times, "Sam? You alive? You fall in, dude?"

Relief was short-lived as the door pulled back, draining away to worry when he saw Sam, eyes hooded, sweat saturated bangs clinging to his forehead, near translucent pallor. His brother didn't just look sick, he looked haunted.

Sam shuffled past him, grunting something unintelligible before having a seat on his bed, placing his head in his hands. "Where'd you go?" Sam ground out. "No food in Strongsville?"

Dean smirked. That was close enough to what he'd been expecting. The undeniable fever burning up his little brother's body, on the other hand, not so much. Even knowing Sam was getting sick, he wasn't ready for it to be this fast, this soon.

"Was preparing," Dean returned.

"For what?"

"To take care of your ass for as long as this thing lasts."

He reached into the bag and pulled out all the medication he'd been able to round up with the last of their poker money, lining it up on the table, from Nyquil to Robitussin. And if all else failed they did have their personal cache of pharmaceuticals but staying out of the hospitals as much as they had to anymore, that was running low.

"Did you hold up a drug store, Dean?"

"One can never be too cautious, especially when your brother tends to be a walking, biological weapon when he gets sick."

"I am…" Sam started to cough again, falling back into the bed when it was over, a frustrated sigh escaping defeated lungs. "…not."

Sam moved like every muscle was a leaded weight, pulling his knees up and into his chest as he positioned his back against the headboard. Dean noticed Sam was dodging his gaze, avoiding eye contact. What was that about?

"You pissed at me?" Dean asked.

Sam's eyes shot up, finally meeting his. "No. No. No. It's uh…not that…just, not…"

"What, Sam?"

"…feeling like myself. That's all."

Dean didn't like that he couldn't tell if the glassed over look to his brother's eyes was the fever or something else. He grabbed two pills and a Gatorade and set them beside Sam, taking a seat on his own bed.

He winced as the skin around his wound tugged too much, causing the ache there to slide effortlessly into a searing pain. Fighting the urge to grab at his leg, Dean leaned back, hoping Sam hadn't noticed, especially when the action had torn at the shallow wound on his shoulder and lower back. Ones he'd chosen not to share with Sam with. Hearing again and again that he needed to rewrap the one on his leg was torture enough.

Sam was still staring at his sheets, pills and Gatorade remaining untouched.

"I've got food too. Soup if you're not up for anything else."

"Not hungry."

"Not an option. Take your meds."

"Take care of your leg," Sam added, taking the pills, eyes challenging Dean.

"Leg's fine, Sam."

But it was irritating him, random bursts of pain causing him to get back up, put some weight on it. He masked the action by giving it purpose, getting himself something to eat, and grabbing the journal.

"You going to read more?" Sam asked. "How come you can and I can't?"

"Because I'm not so sure we should be reading it in the first place. We just _happen_ to find a book that just _happens_ to detail one of Azazel's targets…oh, and not to mention the book makes you trip out and relive the lives of some dudes from the fifties. That, while totally awesome, is messed up."

"So you want to get rid of it?" Sam asked, almost too anxiously for Dean's liking.

If Dean even so much as breathed he was going to destroy it, he knew he would have a fight on his hands. One that involved way too much pleading and begging and Sam looking pathetic, and there was no way he was winning against that right now.

"It could have the answers, Dean," Sam tried again.

"I know that, Sam. Which is why I'm gonna be the one to read it, not you."

Sam ticked up a brow, combativeness percolating the torn down look in his eyes, forcing Dean to rally an explanation for that statement fast.

"Maybe, just maybe, we all went down the rabbit hole because of some of your psychic mojo. That's all I'm saying."

Sam sighed, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned back against the wall. "And if it wasn't that?"

"Then, we get another go, Alice. If at all possible, I'd like to at least try to stay out of the history books."

Sam huffed at that and waved dismissively at Dean. "Story hour with Dean Winchester it is. Could you read to me with a British accent? Oh, and do the voices."

"Could you shuddup?"

Sam smiled and Dean put on the fedora.

"Is that really necessary?" Sam asked.

"I'm trying to get into character, Sam. Just shut your pie hole already."

* * *

_November 18th, 1954_

_I can't shake that damn Shards case. It won't leave me alone. Too many loose ends I want to tie up and I keep fumbling, unable to grasp the threads. Thing that digs under my skin the most is that everyone's given up the chase. Evidence is being ignored, like the sulfur at the scene, and they've tossed out all witness accounts about the man with the unnatural, yellow eyes. Not that I can say I really blame them. But Shards is serving time and I keep thinking about that boy of his…_

_Since the Shards case I keep seeing similar statements, similar oddities at crime scenes, things cast aside when it comes down to solving these cases. Things I can't help but feel would _solve_ the case if looked into, not just written off as superstitious mumbo jumbo. Not to mention, I'm tired of finding good people—_

_church going, hard-working, down-to-earth people—suddenly labeled as Satanists. Easier to label them and shelve them than to pull everything out and really listen to what witnesses and these people are claiming. _

_Benny's noticed the same thing. Kid's not an idiot. He pointed it out first, before I started seeing the signs elsewhere. There's something out there. Something tearing up lives…something that leaves its…God, anyone reading this is going to think I've lost my mind..._evil_ behind. _

_Whatever this thing is, I wish I'd never picked up its scent. I wish I didn't care so damn much…_

_Anyone I've shared this with in confidence, well, let's just say I know now where my loyalties lie. They have some interesting names for me now down at the station. I can't lose credibility…I can't lose my job…_

_I've got to leave this alone._

_But I'm afraid I can't…_

_

* * *

  
_

It was never easy, but he was finding the initial shock, the tremors, lessened with the experience. He hoped it was _never easy_. With every new body he stared down the lens at, he feared becoming completely numb. He feared being able to see death and not feel a thing. He'd gained the confidence necessary to get his job done, but it still rattled him, and in a way he was glad.

Ben knelt down beside the deceased, eyes scanning for the best shot. The bite marks along her exposed shoulder caught his eye, and he focused on and captured the bloody indentations from several angles. His careful gaze moved, unaware that he was looking for something specific until he fell upon it and felt an odd tug of excitement curl up from within. Yellow powder, the smell of rotten eggs…this was another "bizarre" incident, like the Shards case. Ben looked up at Jake, who was never too far, and any excitement fizzled out at the pained expression stretching his brother's features thin.

Pushing to his feet, angling a few more pictures from near the window, Ben backed up to where Jake was and exchanged a knowing glance.

"It's similar to those other ones, Jake" he whispered, keeping his head down between them, pretending to change out the bulb, twisting it between nervous fingers. His observation was met with silence, and he ticked up his eyes between loose, long bangs to his brother's stoic visage. "Say something, Jake."

"Leave it alone."

"Jake?"

His brother moved away from the window in a slow and terribly masked retreat, dropping his arms away from his chest and nodding to another officer as he passed. Ben fell into step behind him.

"Didn't you talk to Del?"

"No dice, little brother. _Leave_ it alone."

"But, Jake…"

"Go get some air, Benny."

"Jake, come on…" Benny watched his brother's retreating back until it disappeared into the next room, hands out to his side, pleading.

Was Jake really going to turn his back on this? Ben got it. He did. This was one more attempt on Jake's part to keep Ben safe, but there was something here that they couldn't ignore. Not forever.

Dropping his hands to his side in defeat, Benny did as he was told if only to quell the pinpricks of anger and disbelief burning blood in his cheeks. Stepping out onto the fire escape, the crisp, November night air slid over his sweat slick brow, easing away the heat from his face and clothing. The smell of fresh rain rolled around invigoratingly in his nostrils, giving the illusion that the grunge of the city below him had washed away.

He tugged at his shirt, peeling it away from his chest beneath his coat, sighing at the evidence of his nerves still raw around the work he was in now. It was a comfort to know his coat was hiding his weakness. Now if he could just get his hands to stop betraying him, not have to wrap them so tight around his camera. He wondered if Jake knew. Knowing him, he did.

The city lights were calming, instilling a brief and distilled childlike awe as he looked out over Cleveland's skyline. He breathed in deep, hoping to buoy some of the collective weight from his shoulders, but he couldn't. Suddenly the lights spread out before him only added to the sense of being too small, too out of control…one life seemingly insignificant, hopeless to make a difference.

What could he really do about the things he was seeing, and everyone else was too blind or too scared to help?

_Leave it alone._

He knew in his heart, Jake wanted to do something about cases like the Shards', but he was bound by a sense of duty not only to Ben, but also to the guys at the station. Men who'd helped a kid raise a kid. There was no room to be talking about 'supernatural' things, not unless you had a few screws loose. Talk like that put worry in people's eyes, in the way they talked to you, treated you, like you'd shatter apart if they asked what was wrong.

Ben sighed and tapped the palm of his hand against the railing before pivoting to go back inside. He'd just set his hand against the window frame when he heard a metallic thunk above him, causing him to pause. Turning his eyes up trough the metal mesh, he could see someone in the shadows. The position of the dark figure made him feel like they were looking down, right at him, sending tendrils of cold up and down Ben's spine.

"Hello?"

The shadowed figure darted back into some unseen space and Ben followed, climbing the stairs two at a time, trying not to rattle the structure right out of the wall in his hurry.

The danger of his actions wasn't registering with him until he set foot in the apartment above, the open window the only place Ben could guess the person had gone. It was dark, save the crackling glow of snow from a TV set in the main room. Anyone could be around any corner, and he couldn't see from where he was standing.

The buzzing of flies drew him toward the kitchen, the smell accompanying the sound making him choke back his last meal, leaving a sour taste in his mouth. Reaching out for the string hanging from a bare bulb, Ben clicked on a light, illuminating the rotting food. It covered the table and counters, rancid meat tickling the gag reflex at the back of his mouth. Something scurried into the wall in his periphery, causing him to back out into the main room. Whoever 'lived' here, wasn't using the kitchen.

Setting his camera down on a table by the window, Ben picked up the fire poker from the neglected fireplace and moved further into the apartment, driven by some gut feeling that had his heart lodged deep into his throat. Curiosity piqued and unrelenting, Ben opened every closet, turned on every light, and jumped at every shadow, all because he _felt_ like he needed to be up here.

He hadn't imagined the man looking down at him, and this was the only place he could have gone, being the top floor. From the derelict state of the apartment, he wondered if whoever was living there was in trouble, hurt…or maybe this was a squatter. In which case, Ben's mind flashed through scenarios of having to fight off an armed man, the idea to come up here looking more and more crazy.

But every room was empty and from what he could tell, no one had passed through there in a while. He was starting to doubt he'd even seen anyone when he saw the chain still bolted across the front door…

No one around and the front door was locked.

Ben set the poker back against the wall and looked back out the window for another way down or up, another window. There was no way whoever he had seen above could have gotten past him.

Another quick sweep of the bedroom and the closets turned up nothing and he was about to give up when he heard voices coming up through the floorboards in the closet. Confused, Ben recognized one as his brother and got to his knees, shoving a few boxes to the side revealing a small hole in the floor. He could see down through a grate and into the victim's bedroom.

Every hair on his neck stood at strict attention, gooseflesh rose on his arms as he realized what he was looking at…

_God…was he…was he spying on her?_

Del was talking with his brother, and he could hear the dark timbre to his voice, the warning there. Ben had missed the conversation, only hearing a "Yes, sir," from Jake before Del took his leave. Jake's shoulders dropped, hand going to the bridge of his nose like he was in pain, the hat hiding his eyes from Ben as he tipped his head down in thought.

Had Jake tried to explain they'd found another one? Even after he'd said to leave it alone, he couldn't. Ben knew it!

Losing himself for a moment in thoughts about his discovery, Jake turning to leave snapped Ben back into the reality of his surroundings. There was something terribly wrong with where he was, and what he was seeing.

"Jake!"

His voice echoed through the space, and he felt his skin bristle with fear that he'd been too loud. Even though he'd combed the place, he couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were still on him.

Jake had startled at the sound, gaze darting the space around him as he turned three hundred and sixty degrees before looking up to the vent.

"Ben?"

"Yeah," he answered, voice unsure, hoping Jake didn't freak out.

"What the hell are you doing? Where the hell are you? Why am I talking to a vent?"

"You need to get up here and see this, Jake. One floor up. I used the fire escape."

He could see Jake's eyes widen as confusion slowly faded to fear. "How did you—? When did you—?" Clearly too flustered to grasp the English language, he'd shot out a commanding finger toward the vent. "Dammit, stay right there!"

Ben rolled his eyes and pushed back onto his haunches. "Wasn't going anywhere," he muttered.

Something red tugged his attention toward the back of the closet and he reached for it, coming back with cooled candle wax. Rolling it between his fingers, Ben studied where it seemed to be pooling out from a small space at the base of the wall, and he put a hand on the back of the closet and felt it move. A panel of the wall slid away revealing white candles and small bones, and a chalice…

Ben pushed away from the wall quickly, heart kicking up as he realized what was covering the small altar.

Blood. God, the whole thing was covered in blood!

What the hell had Ben been thinking? First of all, if this was nothing, and Jake doubted it was nothing, there was always the threat of the consequences of breaking and entering. But Jake didn't really give a damn about the legal issues, Jake was thinking about how and why there would be a way to see from one apartment down into the one below, the implications of that, and how his brother was now two rooms, a fire escape, and two minutes, too far from where he was, possibly in the presence of a murderer.

He'd found the open window, Smith and Wesson drawn, eyes darting over every shadow and object for something he wouldn't like.

"Ben," he whispered harshly, turning the small apartment space over quickly, not only in search of his brother, but also to make sure they were alone.

After almost expelling his stomach contents from the smell that was noxiously strong in the kitchen, and almost offing a rat for moving just outside his periphery, he found Ben in the bedroom, staring at something at the back of the closet.

"Holy…" Jake cringed as he knelt down with Ben, studying the small altar.

"Just the opposite I'd think," Ben breathed. He shivered and pushed to his feet.

Jake noted the red wax covering the floor was from 'white' candles and knew he didn't have to venture a guess as to what was all over the altar.

"Where are the others?" Ben asked.

Jake huffed. "I didn't know what you'd found. I didn't tell anyone."

"You didn't trust me."

"It wasn't that…Come on, Benny."

"I can do this, Jake.

Jake ran a hand down his face. "I know that."

Ben was walking away, tossing a wave over his shoulder. He turned back to Jake in the doorway. "I get it. I do. But I'm not the one ignoring what's happening here."

"I'm not ignoring…wait, what are you going on about now?"

"This. _This_ right here. The altar, and the sulfur and the murders, Jake."

Jake rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand, turning away. Did Ben think he didn't give a shit? Did he not get that this was going to get them locked away somewhere?

Separated…

"I don't care if you don't believe in me," Ben started.

That wasn't the truth and both of them knew it. And when did Jake EVER say that he didn't believe in Ben?

"But the Jake I believe in wouldn't just turn his back like this."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Jake held out his hands, Ben's eyes were burning with such resolve he almost felt the need to defend himself against them. "I'm trying to keep both of our heads above water here!"

"Why?"

The question was so frank and sharp, that it left him asking himself the same thing.

"Because…I…"

"If you're worried about me. Stop." Ben returned.

Jake nodded. This had been building up inside of him for a long time, being torn between the right thing and what would keep Ben safe. He laughed lightly, eyes seeking out cracks in the floorboards like safe-havens.

"Impossible," he breathed. "You know that…"

Every hair on the back of Jake's neck went rigid as Ben wasn't the one to answer him.

"I'd worry about him."

The voice shoved cold spikes through Jake's heart. Snapping his head up, he had only the breadth of a heartbeat to register the man behind Ben, the black obsidian eyes, and then Ben was thrown, body crushing into the sofa.

Unconsciously Jake's S&W was up, aimed at the man's face, anger threading through every pulse.

"Hold it! On the ground!"

God, those eyes! What caused something like that? He couldn't see any iris, any whites. And the way his slick smile spread, twisted the shape of his face, like this was a joke, like he was bulletproof, rattled Jake.

Ignoring Jake's order, the man turned and started for Ben. One more warning left Jake's lips, before the man was too close, too fast, to his brother, and then there was no choice.

Jake fired a round into the man's leg.

The burst of crimson was the only indication the bullet embedded. The man's leg buckled slightly then straightened. A mosquito bite would have caused someone more discomfort. The man rounded on Benny again; picking him up and shoving him back against the wall. Jake took aim, but the man's hand shot out toward Jake and his legs were taken right out from under him, the back of his skull cracking against the ground floor.

_Holy shit… _

Recollecting the breath painfully ejected from his lungs, Jake rolled onto his side, mind staggering through the attack, stumbling over how it was possible. He watched as Benny was now somehow on the ground, diving for a fire-poker. He brought it around and into the man's face, and where a bullet hadn't even made the maniac tick, he howled as his head snapped back from the force. Turning back with black, rage-filled eyes, Jake saw the burn, the seared flesh along the man's jaw.

Suddenly the bulletproof man was running, flinging open the front door and bolting for the exit.

Jake shoved to his feet, grabbing Ben up from the ground and hauling him to his feet. "You all right?" The question came out a more ferocious then Jake had intended, causing Ben to blink, recoil, trying to catch his breath.

Jake picked up the cold fire poker and looked at Ben, confused. What the hell had burned up that guy's face?

A small line of blood slid its way along Ben's hairline and Jake's eyes widened. He grabbed for his brother's face, tilting it toward him.

"I'm okay," Ben groused, shoving Jake back, encouraging him to go. "Don't let him get away!"

"Stay here," Jake ordered, ignoring the sharp protest that followed.

Reinforcements were coming in through the window, and up into the hallway, having heard the scuffle, but Jake pushed past them all toward the stairwell at the end of the hall, slamming into a railing, catching a glimpse of the door to the alley closing.

Leaping the last few steps, Jake drove his shoulder into the alley door, stumbling out into the night. Turning quickly, catching only a shadow, he took off sprinting, something feral having taken over. This was personal, and that was before the attack on Ben. Truth. He wanted the truth and if he could catch this son of a bitch, he might have a shot at _knowing_.

The chase wound down behind the apartment and into the next alley, crossing the main street, Jake didn't slow down for anything, dodging cars, pushing limbs and muscles that hadn't run this hard in a long time in pursuit.

There was nothing slowing the man down, not the bullet lodged in his leg or the garbage strewn about the alleys. He plowed through it all like a tank, and Jake was losing ground on him. That was until the man reached the end of the alley, ready to dart into another busy road, and Ben materialized in front of him, slamming his camera into the man's face, clothes lining him.

The camera broke apart in Ben's hands and the man landed on his back, both looking equally shocked. Jake descended upon the man, cuffs ready, rolling him onto his face, not caring if he was face down in a puddle, fighting him the entire way.

Benny was gathering the busted pieces of his camera from the ground, face stuck somewhere between shock and awe, smile slowly creeping up the corners of his mouth as he appeared to have decided he was pleased with how that all went down. He shook out his shoulders, and Jake heard him laugh as the last wrist was cuffed.

"Interesting…weapon of choice, Ben." Jake mused.

Ben laughed and then one look at the broken camera had him instantly deflated. "Oh man…"

"I'll get you a new one for saving the day, Crimson Avenger" Jake said, running damage control.

The man Jake had pinned, one knee in his back, was still fighting him, but the effort was weak in comparison to what Jake had seen in that apartment. The low growls coming from him were becoming more intense and Jake narrowed his eyes. This tank of a man was…whimpering?

Jake flipped the man over and startled at the blisters forming on his face, the steam rising from his chest and open sores.

"Christ!"

The man arched his back, writhing, skin peeling back like someone had poured acid on him, and all Jake could do was watch him gurgle and spit. He was trying to get out from under Jake, the sounds he was making, growling out, were unlike anything Jake had ever heard come from the throat of a man.

The man stopped struggling, rearing up as far as he could toward Jake's face, pit-like eyes on him, slicing right through him.

"I'm going to remember you," he spoke, more than one voice crawling out of his throat, and skittering off the alleyway walls.

Head snapping back, the bones audibly cracking along with it, the man bucked, slamming his head back against the pavement repeatedly until something black started to slither out from his open maw.

Jake was on his feet and backing away, one hand out in front of Ben's chest to keep him from getting near the man. But one backward glance told Jake that Ben wasn't moving anytime soon. The kid had blanched, eyes wide and scared.

Whatever it was that was happening to the man, Jake knew there was nothing he could do to save him, and there was no way he was getting near…that thing.

Smoke, blackened and thick spewed from the man's mouth like he was burning up from the inside out. He coughed and cried out until the last of it had been expelled, dark mist scattering to the shadows, leaving behind a mess of flesh and gibberish, of scared eyes and quaking words.

The man was looking at him, pleading with him to listen to him, that he was innocent. It was the man with the black eyes.

There was no black left outside of the man's pupils, the whites and hazel irises returned. These were not the eyes of a killer; these were the eyes of a terrified man. The abrupt transition had Jake stunned silent, the rest of the world dead to him. Everything but those eyes.

Ben's hand on his shoulder brought him back, realization threading through the confusion and haze. He could see the swaths of red and blue light bathing the alley, could hear the sirens behind them, and noticed the officers running in to grab the man who could no longer stand on his bloodied leg. He was screaming his innocence, fighting them…

This was not the man in the apartment…

The bells from St. Peter's Cathedral sounded, pulling Jake's eyes up to the stained glass windows above the alley, the angel in one looking down at him and where they had fought. They had been near a church…

Ben was no longer with him, and he was painfully aware of that fact as soon as the world started to speed up, his shock wearing off. Del loomed in front of him demanding answers. Why was the man in that condition, where did Jake find him? How did Jake find him? Jake didn't have time for this or the sense to put together a good enough lie, so he just mumbled out how the guy must have been on some kind of drugs to run like that. How he'd attacked Ben and Jake reacted. Beyond that Jake didn't know anymore than Del.

He found his brother by their '37 on the street, jaw taught, and muscles along it bounding in thought. He looked small, hunched over himself, eyes on the busted camera in his hands.

"What if there are more?"

What the hell was it even? Jake could only think of one thing as he looked back toward the church…and who the hell would believe that?

Jake leaned back against the car with Ben, shoulders slouching, trying to drain out the man pounding on the windows of the squad car.

The man could be innocent. And there was nothing he could do…at least not anything that wouldn't cost him everything. But he knew the truth, he had seen it with his own eyes, and he was combating the doubt seeping into his mind through fragmented pieces of the logic of what he had just seen.

Jake shook his head. "Then Heaven help us."

Whatever it had been…it had been evil. That darkness that had looked into Jake's very core had left an imprint; had left Jake feeling like he needed to scrub it clean. He remembered being told once that evil survived because good men chose to do nothing and Ben's words were pricking at his heart.

_The Jake I believe in…would never turn his back_…

He was at a crossroads and he knew the decision he made would change everything, alter it violently…

"If there are more…" Ben sighed beside him, straightening.

Jake saw something there in his brother's eyes, something that he knew he couldn't fight, short of locking his brother away. It was something echoing through his own resolve, something that had been tearing him apart for weeks on end.

There was no more hiding from it. Everything was about to change with Ben's words. And Jake knew he wouldn't be alone.

This was _theirs_ now.

Ben pushed away from the car with purpose. "…Then I can't do nothing."

TBC...

* * *

A/N: Thanks again to Vanessa and noelani618 for your betas. To you, the readers and reviewers, thanks for all your support!

We know this chapter focused primarily on the Colt brothers, but in order to set up this story we definitely needed to tell theirs. The coming chapters are more balanced for the brothers, if not predominantly more on the Winchesters. Also, keep in mind that Sam and Dean are "there" in these flashbacks. They experience what these brother's experience and see what they see, and are living out this past which will become very interconnected with theirs as the story continues. For those of you who are concerned this isn't a story about Sam and Dean, we hope you see that the Colts' story is just as much theirs.


	3. Chapter 3

C&W—Chapter 3

Nothing around him felt real, except for the ache in his back and leg, the beating of blood through his poorly healing wounds. His eyes were open, taking in the dulled out numbers on the alarm clock, the light around them getting brighter, sharper, until he had to press closed his watering eyes, unaware they'd been open for so long.

Time travel, as far as Dean was concerned, sucked out loud.

The room was dark, and he wasn't sure how long he'd been out. He laid there, focusing on pushing down the pain his aches had transformed into, slowly becoming aware of everything from the weight of his limbs, to the sweat soaked sheets, to the journal his hand rested upon.

_I can't do nothing…_

Dean groaned. The echo of Ben's words brought back the smell of the rain and the city and the sharp cut of police lights across his mind's eye. He pressed the base of both of his palms up into his eyes, watched it all spark out in bright pinpricks of light, and then it was gone, darkness returned with the smell of sweat and cigarettes.

It wasn't Sam. Sam wasn't the reason they kept being pulled back into the past. Dean had been the one to read it this time, and the journal itself had proven to have enough "psychic mojo" of its own.

"Sam?" Dean croaked out, pushing to his elbows, sucking in a breath as the tear in his shoulder pulled against his clothing, almost bringing him back down. Gathering himself, curling up using his abdominals instead, Dean sat up, hand fumbling for the lamp beside the bed, fingers grabbing the chain and clicking on the bulb.

An empty and disheveled bed was all that greeted him in the light. Halfway up, legs tangled in the sheets, Dean was ready to start combing all of Northern Ohio when he heard a sound that both reassured him and tripped up his heart.

He could hear Sam's retching in the bathroom.

Exhaling, silently cursing himself for the scare, especially when he'd about face planted trying to get to his feet, Dean used the wall to straighten himself and to try putting weight on his leg. It felt this way for a reason, and it wasn't the fall. He could still hear Sam nagging him to look at it. The heat and weight of infection was all too familiar to him, and this was the last thing he needed.

Sam's insistence that there was not a lot of work for one-legged pirate hunters made Dean cringe now.

Ever since Cutter's Landing he was making stupid decisions. Dragging Sam around for one. Tuning out his brother's incessant mother-hen mantras…well, he was going to have to work on that. Baby steps.

Dean stumbled the last few inches before the door, catching himself on the frame, and stared down at Sam who was draped over the bowl. The smell was enough to get him gagging, but he cowboyed up and moved in.

Sam's look gutted him. The mixture of apology and pain and nausea etched into his expression caused Dean to pause.

"God…Sam..."

"Help me up," Sam breathed.

"You done?" Dean asked, about ready to join him.

Sam only nodded, reaching up for Dean's hand. Dean was helping him stand, supporting his weigh, trying to keep all of it on his good leg, but it was a precarious balancing act, and Sam looked like he was starting to have second thoughts about moving away from the bowl.

Dean saw it too late, the suppressed gag, Sam no longer pulling up but trying to get back to the bowl. He heard the expulsion and _felt_ it, his shirt soaking, now covered in warm vomit. Sam was on the ground, down by the bowl, letting even more go while Dean stood there and pulled his shirt away from his body.

_Gross…Aw…dude…Come on!_

He knelt down; using the sink to lower himself onto his knees, hand on Sam's back as he finished. Dean hadn't seen him this sick in a long time. Sam looked over at him, again, apologizing with his eyes.

"…Sorry…"

"Any way I can get it off of me quickly, without betraying my cool exterior?" Dean asked his brother, getting Sam to smile weakly before his face was back down in the bowl again.

Dean waited for him to finish; slipping off his T-shirt as quickly as he could manage over his bandages and with limited range of motion and tossed it in the corner.

Helping Sam back to bed was no fun. It had been easier to do when Sam wasn't six foot four, just six or four and when Dean wasn't trying to keep his balance on a bum leg. But Sam finally hit the mattress, legs curling up into his stomach, head turned into his pillow as he coughed.

Dean was feeling more and more like Igor as he hobbled about the room, getting what Sam would need. Another Gatorade, something for his stomach and a washcloth for his forehead. Then Dean collapsed into his own bed.

"We're officially under quarantine," Dean said. "You going to be all right, Sam?"

"Didn't mean to throw up on you." Sam's voice was like gravel.

Dean shrugged. "Don't let it happen again."

Sam cracked a smile.

"Did you see it?"

Dean was confused for a moment by the question. He paused rubbing at his leg and tilted his head. "What?"

"Ben and Jake…they won against a demon…on blind luck," Sam said, grinning.

Dean laughed a little, taking up the fedora on the bed next to him and rolling it over in his hands.

"The church…some random puddle was still water on sacred ground…"

"And the poker," Sam wheezed out, ending in a cough.

"Iron?"

"Probably."

"Lucky sons of bitches," Dean smiled. "Wonder if they realized it…"

"It's strange," Sam started.

"Which part exactly? The time travel or Jake and my unparalleled great taste in cars?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I never really hear stories like theirs…hunters are usually more…"

"Revenge driven?"

"You said it, not me," Sam sighed. "But yeah…"

"Maybe that's coming," Dean added, not really wanting that to be true.

"I hope not…" Sam came back. He paused, curling in on himself tighter. "I hope one didn't lose the other…" Sam rolled onto his back like he was trying to find some position that didn't hurt or make him feel worse. Dean saw something else there as well; the statement weighted with more then just hopes for that set of brothers. "I like…that they chose this; that they saw a need. Something they couldn't ignore."

"Like Hendrickson," Dean muttered quietly, feeling the prick of loss and guilt before forcing it aside. "No offense, Sam, but there are times I have no idea why anyone would choose this." He shook his head. "Then again, Bobby always said people got into hunting somehow. Always wondered what else, other than tragedy, brought people into a life like this."

"Would you still be here if we never lost Mom?"

The answer for that question came easier than he'd thought it would, the truth being, something Dean had always known about himself.

"If I knew what was out there…Yeah. I would."

"Me too. There was a time…no way…but now…"

There had been too much in their lives to turn their back on this war. Even if they could have ignorance, having been where he'd been, seeing the things he'd seen, there was a part of him that knew he would always be a hunter. There was no escaping that. And Dean wasn't really trying.

He wanted an end, to not have to keep Sam in cheap motel rooms when he was sick or injured, or drag him around, him sleeping in the backseat of the Impala when they were on the run. He wished Sam could have had the girl and the lawyer gig. But he knew there was no going back…and he was not giving up this fight until Sam was safe and there was nothing left tearing apart lives. And he knew…that might be a long, long time…

"This is where I belong," Sam said, drawing back Dean's attention.

"Cheap motel rooms, sewing up our own wounds…"

"With you. Fighting. I can't do nothing, Dean."

Dean nodded, heart swelling at that. He tried to hide the relief from his face by looking down at the journal beside him, absently noting that he hadn't felt pain in his leg while in Jake's shoes…

Sam was falling asleep, the discomfort apparent in the small moans whimpered into his pillow.

Dean took up the journal and flipped through it.

Hopefully the Colts were faring better than they were.

**December 3****rd****, 1954 **

Jake was having second thoughts on having Ben involved with the police department, not that he could do anything about it now. Ben seemed determined to do the police work on the side. Jake had been all for it, until it came down to doing it. Despite everything, he'd managed to keep Ben's life as normal as possible. As a small boy Jake had been sure Ben hadn't been exposed to the harsher side of life. Jake never cared what he'd seen or dealt with as long as Ben was sheltered.

Ben had been a sweet, kind child who'd grown into a good-hearted, gentle-natured young man. Jake couldn't help worrying that what he exposed Ben to now was going to change all that, change his brother into a hardened, cold man. Ben represented all the good things in Jake's life, all the good things Jake had done with his life. He was happy, smart, and could go so far. Yet he wanted to follow Jake around taking pictures of crime and filth and the dark side of humanity.

What was Jake doing about it? He was taking Ben into yet another situation he'd hoped his younger brother never have to see.

Jake hated taking himself into these places let alone Ben. The people here were here for a reason; most of those reasons weren't nice or pleasant. Sanitarium. It sounded so clean, so acceptable, something anyone from polite company might not find offensive. A word that didn't conjure pictures of what was inside the walls they were about to go behind.

It was one of these places he and Ben would surely end up in if they weren't careful. People indubitably thought the two of them crazy, and Jake wouldn't have been the first cop in history to crack. Thing is, he hadn't cracked. Neither had Ben.

Benny. Thinking of him locked away in one of these hellholes, at the mercy of the other patients, without Jake. Him without Ben. It was the way it'd always been with them, they depended on each other so much. Jake didn't see that changing anytime soon.

They were lead through the main entrance, where new patients were processed and admitted to the area reserved for criminally insane. This part could be mistaken for any hospital waiting room or a less expensive hotel. There were chairs scattered about, a few plants and a magazine rack with the latest _LIFE_ and _NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC_ issues. Everyone was neatly dressed or in a uniform. It was quiet here unlike what was beyond the door.

Jake hated it here, bringing Ben terrified him in a way he'd not anticipated. Heart skipping a few beats when they stopped in front of the main door to the ward, Jake took a deep breath.

The orderly, intern, guard, whoever the Hell he was looked Jake up and down. Jake had been here before and it was obvious the man recognized him. He nodded and mumbled out a greeting of, "Detective."

The man's eyes flicked over Ben. "You _both_ going in? You sure?"

He heard how Ben swallowed and Jake felt him tense and straighten behind Jake. Glancing back at Ben, Jake nodded. "Stay with me."

_Hell no, I'm not sure_.

The protest was about to come out of Ben's mouth; Jake saw it forming, when the orderly opened the door. Someone shrieked, and Jake felt the skin covering his forearm move and twitch into goosebumps. Ben's lips pressed together in a thin line. Some of the color left his face, and he nodded once tightly.

Jake wanted to take Ben's arm when they went inside. He wanted to grip Ben's wrist as tightly as possible and not let go until they were back in the parking lot, free and clear. Better yet, he wanted to turn Ben around and shove him back outside. Instead, he let his hand drop to his gun for a few seconds. "Don't talk to any of them. Avoid making eye contact and don't take anything from any man here." _Stay behind me, let me hold onto your arm and keep one hand on my jacket at all times_.

"Jake, I can—"

"I mean it, Ben." Jake snapped the words out, keeping his voice low and harsh; putting all the authority he could muster into it.

Someone in one of the first rooms grabbed the wire grating covering a small window on the closed door and shook it, shouting details of how he was going to dismember them both. Ben's mouth opened and shut fast. His eyes got a bit too round and his breathing shuddered for a few beats.

Another patient, across the hall from the first, cackled shrilly and added to the first man's rant.

Eyes trained ahead, Jake marched down the hall doing everything he knew how to do to project authority and power. He wanted these men too afraid of him to do anything more than yell.

Ben jumped forward and scrambled to keep up.

The orderly lumbered along with them, his mouth formed a silly grin, obviously finding their discomfort amusing. He pointed to a room near the end of the hall, "In that one. He's Chapman."

The name had popped up more than once when Jake started quietly, at least he hoped it was quietly, looking further into some of _those_ cases. Murders where witnesses reported things like people with unnatural eyes and sulfur sprinkled about like confetti. The man more than once seemed to pass through an area right behind _those_ cases. Never before. Some people Jake talked to said Chapman asked the same sorts of questions Jake asked. Some people seemed relieved someone believed them, didn't think they belonged somewhere like this.

That just brought Jake back to Ben—his Benny—locked behind one of _those_ doors, alone, desperate, no one to listen to him. No one to believe in him. God, how could he have made that kid think, even for a minute, Jake didn't believe in Ben? His chest tightened down with more guilt, and he swallowed away with difficulty. His mind kept skittering to sights of Ben's face as a cold, iron door slammed shut on him.

They stopped beside the indicated door. Inside the small, Spartan room was a man. He wore the hospital attire. His dingy yellow-gray hair was shoulder length and wild, sticking out at all sorts of odd angles. He hunched on the floor, chalk in hand and was scribbling furiously.

Jake turned and shared a look with Ben. His brother swallowed, crossed his arms over his chest, hands bunched to fists and nodded. Jake took a deep breath and nodded to the orderly who opened the door and let them step inside. Once the door was shut the lock clicked into place again with a tinny echo that made Ben jerk his head around and look back at the door for a few seconds, the orderly turned away and stood in the hall waiting for them.

The man barely looked up long enough to spare them a glance. He was muttering what sounded like Latin under his breath.

"Are those religious symbols?" Ben pointed to the mess of sigils and lines on the floor.

The man stopped and peered up at them, scrutinizing first Jake then Ben. He stood slowly and moved closer to Ben. Jake's breath caught and his heart sped up.

"You _believe_, boy." One of Chapman's fingers pointed at Ben, getting so close he nearly poked Ben's nose.

Ben's eyes shifted to Jake before he whispered out a hoarse, "Yes."

"You saw one, a demon. I can smell its stink on you." Chapman edged closer as Ben backed away until he pressed against the door.

Jake stepped between them, moving Chapman back with one hand and pushing Ben farther behind him with the other. "We were hoping you'd tell us what you know. Show us what to use, help us learn to fight."

"Everyone thinks I'm a crazy old man." Chapman squinted at Jake, moved around so he could gaze up at Ben again. He held up both hands, fingers wiggling back and forth. "Sees ghosts and demons and witches."

"That might be true. But I'd like to hear what you have to say." Jake sidestepped, again blocking his brother from Chapman.

Chapman giggled high pitched and nasally. "See that?" He pointed to his drawing on the ground. "Memorize it. It's called a Devil's Trap and it's the only thing that can hold a demon at bay, it's like a bear trap to them. Or a jail cell."

"Can I take a picture of it?" Ben pulled the camera hung over his shoulder into his hands.

Shrugging, Chapman waved at it grandly. "Go ahead. It's my finest work."

While Ben took a few pictures, Jake pulled out a notepad. "What else can I use against a demon?"

"Holy water, boy. Get yourself a good supply and learn to make it. You need a rosary and the right rituals." Chapman shuffled across his room to his bed. Reaching under his mattress he pulled out a tattered notebook. "Keep a journal, record everything so you can remember what you did the last time." He shoved the book into Jake's hand. "Everything is in there; how to make holy water, how to use salt to protect yourself from a spirit, weapons of this war, boy. How the lights flicker when _they_ are nearby."

"I'll bring this back after I copy it, if that's okay."

Chapman waved him off. "No need boy. _They're_ out there. I'm in here." He grinned and gave the barred door a shake, "Iron. I have what I need to stay safe. You need that to fight. I've been waiting for someone to pass this to. Another hunter. Another _believer_. That's what we do. Old hunters don't die, they pass on their journals." He cracked a grin. "I _got_ old because of _that_ journal, so take heed, boy. Both of you boys."

Jake couldn't hustle the two of them out of there fast enough. He didn't start breathing the right way until he was in his car watching Ben slide in the passenger side and pull the door shut.

"Those people were scary." Ben exhaled.

"No kidding." Jake tossed the journal into Ben's lap. Ben raised a curious eyebrow at him. "Hey, you're in charge of the homework. I hit things. Dolls love the bruises and scars."

Ben snorted but was already flipping through the book as they drove away.

**December 6****th****, 1954**

One could almost laugh with how cliché the old place was. It looked like any and every 'haunted house' he'd ever heard of or seen right from the cobwebs to the peeling paint and derelict state of the structure. Water damage and termites had done quite a number on the 'old lady' and Jake had asked Ben twice now if it looked like the house was buckling on one side.

Jake wanted this to be over quickly. Get in. Get out. Ghost gone. Go get a beer. Call it a night.

Taking up the shotgun, hearing the house groan and shutter with the wind like a challenge, he couldn't shake the feeling that he wanted to savor this. He was taking on something people had written off as superstition and myth. He knew the truth. He was a defender of innocence. Protector of the unaware. Guardian of the—

"Are you going to stand there all night? I'd like to get this over before Christmas," Ben intoned.

Keeper of the smart-mouthed little brother…

Jake lifted a brow and touched the end of the shot gun to his temple. "Have to make sure I've thought this through. Want us burning rubber in twenty minutes, tops."

"Do you…really need to bring the gun?" Ben asked.

"Salt shells, Ben, not going to hurt anyone accept the spirit. According to Chapman anyway…not sure if I trust the kook yet, but he's the only one who's made any sense about what we've been seeing."

Ben leaned over into the trunk and grabbed a bag; Jake raised a brow when he saw that it was his camera bag.

"So, you want me to leave the gun because you plan on blinding the bad guy with a flash and slugging him with your camera again?"

Ben snorted and picked up his camera. "I've done a little research on my own, Jake. I want to try something before you go in there and start blasting holes in the walls."

Jake waved toward the house emphatically. "It would be an improvement!"

Ben shook his head and grabbed a shovel. "Just let me try this."

Grumbling, Jake grabbed up the bag of lighter fluid and salt, slinging it over his shoulder. "This should be a blast…"

As they approached, Jake's former enthusiasm was digesting sourly in his stomach, creating an anxious, barbed knot. This was their first encounter with what he could only assume was a poltergeist from Chapman's journal and from the witness accounts. What if Chapman had led them astray on how to fight these things? There had been two deaths already in the last week, kids looking for kicks. This thing didn't just throw around tea cups and open cupboards, shaking chains and groaning because it was disgruntled. It killed. It had broken and disfigured two people, and Jake was taking Ben with him?

Jake watched Ben pull out a compass and check for north. Jake furrowed his brow.

"I read up on how to find these things," Ben announced. "Compass points north toward a magnetic field, but if there's another nearby it will point to that right? There's speculation about that with spirits. Why some cultures or practices use dousing rods. Want to make sure I know what way is north before we get in there."

"You're such a nerd," Jake smirked.

Ben rolled his eyes and shifted the strap of his camera bag so he could steady the compass. "Better a nerd if that keeps both of our necks from harm."

Jake stopped before they ascended the front steps, grabbing Ben's arm. He was having second thoughts. He didn't want him to go.

"Jake?"

"I think you should stay outside," Jake sighed. "This thing has killed two people already…"

"Which is why you need me in there with you," Ben challenged. "If this thing tries anything, I can't risk you being alone. Not to mention you just proved I might know a thing or two you don't that will get us out of there alive."

Jake dropped his hand from Ben's arm. "If anything happens to you…"

"It won't," Ben replied. "I've got you here."

There was no fighting it. Jake knew that short of shoving Ben in the trunk, he was coming. Ever since they'd met with Chapman, confirmed their fears there was more out there, more than the demons they'd crossed, Ben had been relentless in his determination to do what he could to keep these supernatural things from hurting others.

Fear had been Jake's constant companion ever since. Fear that they would get caught. Fear that Del and the others wouldn't understand. Fear that they would end up like Chapman…or dead…

"Come on," Ben encouraged, nodding over his shoulder. "I'll buy beers if you find the body first."

Jake ticked up the corner of his mouth, grinning. "And if you find it first?"

"You're buying of course, and you have to let me drive her," he pointed back to the Chevy.

Jake must have paled a few shades because Ben started to laugh. "I'm not going to go for pinks in her, man."

"Fine," Jake caved. "But I'm going to win this bet."

Ben huffed out a laugh which eased the tension surrounding them, alleviating the pressure that had started to press relentlessly into Jake's heart. Once inside, however, he could feel his pulse threading, heart slamming into his throat. No matter how prepared he thought he was when his flashlight cut through the glinting dust particles and cobwebs, when the darkness around them felt like it was tangible and moving, alive and deadly, swimming and gathering them up, he found it hard to breathe.

Adrenaline was his friend. Had been when it came to chasing down the bad guys. He'd stormed after that black-eyed man, demon, whatever, without a second thought, and he needed to grab hold of some of that strength right now. It was because this was new, this was uncharted territory and he wasn't alone. Every step, breath, twitch of Ben's muscles focused his attention, because everything around them was a potential weapon, every shadow possibly the thing they were hunting.

Ben was focused on his compass and he stopped, breath catching, audible to Jake, and he looked down a hallway and shined his flashlight on the door at the end.

"It switched north," Ben whispered. "It's pointing toward that door now…"

"So our ghost is there?" Jake asked.

"Maybe…"

"Maybe?!" Jake ground out, hushed but sharp.

"Why are we whispering?" Ben asked.

Jake blinked. "Because it could…"

Ben grinned. "Hear us? Do ghosts have ears?"

"You think I know!"

They'd followed the direction of the compass, both keeping their breaths baited, steps calculated, muscles coiled and controlled. It took them nearly five minutes just to get to the door, and when Jake insisted he go first, Ben had stubbornly shoved open the door to get in front of him.

It was a kitchen.

Nothing jumped out at them from the shadows. Nothing came at them screaming. The air was still; quiet. Ben looked confused and consulted his compass. He showed it to Jake, the needle was spinning frantically.

"This has to be it…" he breathed.

Jake tightened his grip on the shotgun and looked around at the rotting wood floors and yellowed wallpaper that was curling free from the walls like it was trying to separate itself from the darkness Jake could feel permeating everything in this house.

"So they think she was buried in the walls, right? That's the talk around town?"

"Or the floorboards. When she disappeared, and her husband split town…that was the speculation, which turned into local lore, which led people out here to see for themselves."

Jake's skin was crawling and he took the shovel from Ben. "Then let's find the broad and get this over with."

He slammed the shovel into the walls, which broke away, water weak and brittle. He noticed Benny was down near the ground opening something and dumping it onto the ground. Small metal shavings bounced off one another, rattling around the floor until they came to a halt.

"What are you doing?"

Ben sighed. "My compass can't pinpoint it…was hoping…"

"Iron…you think the body is…magnetized?"

"If the spirit is bound to it, and charged enough to draw my compass…it was just a theory…It's strange. The same metal used to find them is apparently a spirit repellent."

Jake shook his head and started to smash in the walls again, grunting out something about none of this making sense as plaster and wood splintered around the end of the shovel. He stopped when he thought he heard Ben gasp, and was that…

He turned and watched the shavings move, hitting against one another as they slid across the floor. Mouth agape, expression probably matching Ben's, awestruck and wide eyed, he watched them stand on end over one spot, spread out in a halo around a crack in the floor.

"Give me the shovel," Ben commended, hand out to Jake.

"No way…" he breathed, handing the shovel over to his brother.

A few well-placed hits to the already cracked boards and Ben broke through into something below. He cleared away the splintered pieces and found a box, then beamed up at Jake.

"How much you want to bet there's a body in there?"

"Don't go ape over a box, Benny."

Ben stood up and with a confident glint in his eyes raised the shovel again and drove it downward.

_SLAM. CRUNCH. SNAP._

The last of the wood came away revealing decay and bones, sloughed off rot and hay dry remains of hair…and a smell that made Jake's eyes water.

Ben was beaming instead of recoiling, leaning on his shovel, expression shouting 'I told you so.'

"Looks like I win this bet," Ben smiled, hand out. "Keys please."

"Nerd."

"Jerk."

Jake grumbled and dug into his pockets. "Heads up," he said tossing the keys to his brother. "You earned it anyway…"

He bent down to grab up the bag of salt and lighter fluid when his flashlight started to flicker.

"Oh, that can't be good…" he muttered. Both his flashlight and Ben's went out, plunging them into the dark. Something ripped the bag from his hand, startling him back ungracefully onto his butt. "Shit…"

"Hold on," Ben's confident voice gave Jake something to latch onto, a way to know where his brother was.

"Something took it right out of my damn hand…"

There was a brief flash of light that illuminated the space around them, giving them a quick snapshot of the surroundings before it was dark again. He could hear Ben moving, popping out the bulb and snapping in another.

"To your left, Jake. The bag and the matches..."

"Good thinking."

Every hair was poised, gooseflesh rising over his arms as he crawled toward the left, going on only the quick photograph he had in his mind and Ben's directions. His hand found the bag and he fumbled with the snaps, rummaging blind for the matches, coming up empty.

"I need light again, Ben."

"On it," Ben said.

Jake heard the flash, the light blinding but necessary as he was able to close his hand around the matchbook before everything was dark again.

"Guess I shouldn't have made fun of the camera idea," he stated, fingers flying though the book and plucking out a match. Hurry…he had to hurry. They needed light.

"That's not why I brought it," Ben said.

Jake struck the match, surprised how much light burst forth. He could see Ben again, but any relief was snuffed out along with the match as he saw _her_. Her face was covered and hidden behind bloodstained strands of matted blond hair. Her skin was as pale and dingy as the dress she was wearing. One rotting and sinew exposed hand was reaching for his brother, right before a wind slid over the match extinguishing it.

"Ben!"

There was another flash and a scream, a woman's scream, piercing his ears, causing him to cover them in futile defense.

"Jake!" Ben shouted, but it didn't sound scared or hurt, it was angry, determined. It fueled Jake forward. "Burn her. I'll hold her off!"

There was another flash, a scream, and Jake was feeling out the edge of the hole that they had created. He'd just finished throwing salt and lighter fluid into the hole when he heard a crash, Ben's muted cry…

His camera hit the floor and went off, Jake witnessing the spirit dissolve, her cries of pain at the flash not going unnoticed before she disappeared. Ben was on the floor, an end table broken beneath his body.

The flashlights sparked to life again and Jake dove for his, getting to Ben to make sure he was okay.

"See that?" Ben coughed as Jake helped him up. "_That _was why I brought the camera."

"Are you nuts?" Jake asked.

"Different cultures believe…" Ben groaned as he was brought to his feet. "Pictures steal your soul. Thought it might work…"

"You _thought _it might work?"

"Good thing I was right, right?" Ben tried, looking for approval.

Jake went for the matches. He was ending this now. While Ben's camera may have scared off the woman's spirit, there was no reason she wouldn't come back. Chapman said to burn the body, and he was going to light this broad's fire, and take down this house along with it.

He heard her scream before he saw her, charging him from within the kitchen, materializing from literal nothing, like she was nothing more than a projection, but she slammed into him like she was made of steel and Jake's body was flung back into the wall, multiple somethings snapping, crushing the air from his lungs.

The spirit was on him, tearing at him with her nails and screaming; he fought back, trying to hold her away from him, one hand at her throat the other searching around for something near him to use as a weapon.

Ben had tried to get to him, camera back in his hands, but the kitchen table slammed into him, pinning him against a wall.

Something had been knocked over by the table as it was thrown into his brother and it rolled into Jake's hand; the salt canister.

He flung what he could into the woman's face, and she disappeared, shrieking. Ben shoved the table away from himself and stumbled down beside Jake hands going to his torn shirt and the deep cuts lining his chest.

"Jake?"

"I usually like it rough, but there's no way I'm taking that doll on a second date," he groaned. Jake rolled forward, sucking in a breath when something pulled in a way it definitely wasn't supposed to. He paused, wet warmth sliding from the cuts on his back and chest. He grunted and shoved to his feet, refusing Ben's help. "Burn her, I'll cover."

He picked up the shotgun, keeping his brother in his periphery. It was his turn to say 'I told you so.'

Ben lit the entire matchbook and dropped it onto the body, and Jake wheezed out a sigh of relief. She was burning. It was over. Right?

If only.

She attacked again like a wild animal, spitting and hissing as she rounded on Jake from behind. He was ready this time, pivoting and firing right into her feral and bloodthirsty eyes. She was gone for only a moment before coming back, low, and slammed into Jake's midsection sending him back to the ground.

His vision danced, sparks pricking at the edges, pain sliding up and down his spine from the first impact. Ben was there swinging a fire poker which threw her away from Jake. But she was relentless, desperate.

"Shoot low…they're riding Shetlands," Jake groaned as he kicked the shotgun to Ben, coughing, tasting blood.

Smoke was quickly saturating the room, the flames shriveling the air in his lungs. Her body was burning but not fast enough. The heat was starting to get unbearable and the fire was catching, spreading along the walls, eating at the furniture.

For a moment Jake wasn't there, pain and heat disorienting, swallowing him back into memories of their old home, of Ben screaming for him…

He rolled onto his side, eyes widening as Ben took a shot, backed into a corner. He couldn't load the gun fast enough and she was scurrying, insect like, limbs bending and cracking in impossible angles, across the wall, over the fire that had separated them, lunging for his brother...

"Ben!"

* * *

Crap…_crap_! Ben! Ben-_nnny_!

SAM! Where was Sam? The poltergeist it was—and Ben…_Sam_…"_Sammy_!"

Dean went from horizontal to jackknifed vertical so fast the room swam and spun around him in nauseating waves. 'Cause, yeah, they needed more vomit in their lives right now. Moisture trickled along the line of Dean's sideburns and oozed in annoying, itchy paths over the knobs of his spine.

"Dhn-Dean?" Sam's voice sounded completely panicked but it was a wet, cracking whisper with no power behind the cry. The solid thunk hitting the floor sounding like it came from something about Sam's weight and from the direction of Sam's bed jerked Dean completely to the present.

Sweat slithered from under Dean's arms to course down his sides. He struggled to get out of the bed and to Sam; while at the same time was trying to bring his breathing under control. He was only partially successful.

Sam had landed between the beds on all fours, gasping and wheezing. Coughs wracked his body, making his back and chest shudder with every move. It hurt Dean just to watch.

Falling off the bed and landing on his knees beside Sam more than getting off his bed and kneeling next to his brother, Dean laid one hand between Sam's shoulder blades. His leg and shoulder ached. Dean felt as if he'd gone nine rounds with a Wendigo, but in reality it was his own body's reaction to his injuries. He was determined to heal whether he wanted to do anything about the infection or not.

Sam shifting under his hand, balancing on one hand while wiping the back of his other over his mouth pulled Dean's attention back to his brother. He was a rather unattractive shade of gray. His bangs hung in stringy, lackluster slashes over his eyes. He looked up at Dean with eyes too glassy and bright, his face had no color and he was trembling.

"You're not going to barf on me again, are you?" Dean tried to smile and failed. Leaning back on his heels, he took the hand Sam was smearing over his face in his own hand and started to pull them both to their feet.

"'M 'orry. Didn't know. Don't leave, please."

"I know you didn't know you were going to hurl on me." Dean pulled with a bit more insistence. "C'mon kiddo, up."

Sam shook his head, jerked away and landed on his butt against his bed. "Don't go 'way." Sam's voice cracked with wet coughs.

Dean sighed, he was tired and sore, and he wanted Sam back in bed where he was safe and couldn't trip on something and slam face first into the nasty carpeting on the floor and get rug burns on his nose and no doubt an infection from that too. "'Course not, Sammy. Now come on." Grasping both of Sam's arms firmly Dean couldn't help sucking in a harsh breath.

Sam's skin was hot and dry.

Hauling Sam up far enough to shove him backward and get his ass on the bed, Dean gave in to the urge to comb one hand down the back of Sam's head. He sighed again and smiled a bit. Last time he'd done this, Sam had strep throat _and_ measles, missed nearly a month of school (and life) and pissed their dad off so badly Dean thought he'd leave Sam at the nearest APL since the town they'd holed up in had no orphanage. 'Cause Sam just couldn't get sick like a normal person he had to get deep down, have every symptom he can manage at one time _SICK_. He'd been fourteen then. He looked about four now.

Sam reached out and, using two fingers, moved Dean's shirt up, exposing his chest. Dean watched, fascinated, as Sam's eyes traced the exact path of the scars only Dean could see. Normally only Dean could see.

Eyes skittering over his face Sam breathed out, "Those are my fault."

"No, they're not." Dean took one of the blankets and wrapped it around Sam's shoulders. Easing him back, Dean pulled the rest of the bed covers over his brother and up to his shoulders.

"Sit tight, kiddo, I'll be right back."

He wasn't a half turn away when Sam's hand shot out and grabbed at Dean's shirt. "I di'n mean to. Don' go. S'rry."

"I'm just going to the bathroom. Stay there." Dean backed away, holding one hand out and pointing at Sam, keeping an eye on him. All this fussing over some vomit. It was nasty, but still not really disowning your brother nasty. "Not going anywhere, Sammy." Dean said as he grabbed some ibuprofen from the bottle and water from their small refrigerator.

That seemed to ease Sam's restlessness.

Back a minute later, Dean pressed the ibuprofen into Sam's hand and pushed that hand to his mouth. Water followed the pills. "Take those, you'll feel better tomorrow. Or maybe the day after."

Sam obediently took the pills and drank. Dean pulled his shirt away from his neck and peered down. No red rash, no red bumps, maybe it was just the bubonic plague and _not_ strep _and_ the measles striking again. Sam was too big to dump at an orphanage or the APL. Sam took germ warfare to new and exciting levels.

Ye'ha.

Sam sat there blinking at him, not even moving the bangs falling in his eyes away. Dean completely deflated. He hated—_hated_—his brother hurt or sick, even if it was just a dumb cold or the flu. Seeing Sam with a splinter made his heart shiver and want to crack. Perching on the edge of Sam's bed, Dean moved the offending bangs away for him and coaxed him to lay down more.

"I want you to get more sleep."

Sam nodded, and Dean already missed his constant questions, theories, and general chatter.

Switching on the TV, Dean found a channel with something brainless on and turned the sound down. Sam rolled to his side, burrowed farther under the blankets and focused, more or less, on the TV. A minute later he was still awake and blinking but his eyes hazed over.

Dean chuckled and settled back on his bed with the journal. "Lights on but no one home." He turned and watched Sam for a minute. "Hey, Sammy, next week I want you to film me with the next set of twins I can score. Dude, we can make a mint off of that!"

Sam's finger wormed out from under the covers, waved at Dean for a second and hooked the blanket, pulling it over his head.

Dean cracked a grin, "That's my boy." He settled on his bed, journal in his lap, unopened.

Everything from the journal was so real. Colors, smells, textures, he didn't just read them or picture them in his head; he _lived_ them. They both did. They weren't observers; they were experiencing the lives of the Colt brothers first hand. It was beyond haunting, beyond weird. Dean didn't even have a word for what it was.

Turning his head to the side, Dean sat the journal on the table between them and watched Sam's breathing for a bit. It brought him peace and comfort, just knowing his brother was safe and resting. Some of his earliest memories were watching Sam sleep and a warm flush spread over his chest. He understood much more about Jake Colt than his awesome taste in cars. Much, much more.

The Colts had to have gotten through their encounter with the ghost, there were many more entries, and a quick flip through assured Dean Jake wasn't writing about Ben in the past tense. They'd survived that one together and from the thickness of the book years' worth afterwards. Yawning, Dean slid down so he was flat on his back. The past was done and gone and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't worry about the Colts, he had enough to do worrying about Sam.

* * *

A/N: Thanks again to all of our readers and reviewers for your support and to our lovely betas. Kudos to those of you who caught on that Mary Shards' murder was based on a real case. We're really thrilled that you guys are enjoying this and we hope that when we get to the end of this journey for the boys you'll be pleased with how all the pieces come together. Take care!--Bayre and SJ


	4. Chapter 4

CW—Chapter 4

(A/N: a dude in the early sixties was slang for a geek.)

Dean completely blamed the fact he'd sat up the entire night, while Sam slept, on the Colt brothers' journal. He'd pulled the chair between the beds and propped his feet on Sam's bed because he was more comfortable there. It had nothing to do whatsoever with the coughing and restlessness from Sam. There was no way Dean would sit up with his brother for a stupid cold.

Dropping the journal to his knees and twisting his head back and forth to ease some kinks, Dean realized Sam's eyes were open. He lay there, silently doing nothing but blinking at Dean.

Dean blinked back for a few seconds before realizing Sam was awake. "Hey. Been awake long?"

"Few minutes." Sam shook his head slightly and pushed up far enough to lean against the headboard. "You've been sitting there all night." It was a flat out statement, no question or even surprise implied.

"Uh…light's better here. This is…uh—" Yeah, Dean Winchester, winner of the smoothness award. He waved one hand at the journal, closed it, and swung his feet to the ground. "You're looking better. I think you looked better dead than you did yesterday."

That got him a smile. "You're changing the subject." Pushing out of the chair and giving his back a twist, completely ignoring how Sam watched and gave him one of those quick, knowing headshakes, Dean walked across the room.

He put on some coffee then grabbed more ibuprofen and water. Back to his brother in a few quick strides, Dean perched on the edge of Sam's bed while Sam downed the pills and bottle of water without so much as a questioning glance.

Nodding at the journal Dean left on the chair, Sam asked in a small voice, "What happened to them?"

"Apparently they had a buddy who'd done a stint in World War Two as a medic. Tracked him down, and he patched them up. That trick with the metal shavings and the compass was awesome."

"Yeah." Sam croaked. Dean pretended not to notice how he shivered and pulled the blankets closer. When the coffee was done, Dean held out a mug. Sam's fingers appeared from under the blanket and wrapped around it immediately.

Picking up the journal, Dean resettled in the chair, thumbing through. "They got the salt and burn thing down with ghosts and stocked up on more supplies for the next round. Gotta give these guys credit, they didn't give up. They had no one to teach them other than the journal they'd gotten from some old, crazy hunter named Chapman. I mean talk about on-the-job training." Dean faked a shudder and took Sam's mug, refilling it and his own. "Better?"

Sam nodded.

"The last one I read was them going after—and getting—a _werewolf_. They had balls, I'll give them that, and ambition. Shit, what they had to work with is the stone ages compared to the technology we can get a hold of." Dean laughed softly as he sat again in the chair. "And here I thought some of the stuff we used as kids was dark ages compared to what we have now."

"That werewolf when we were kids scared the crap out of me. It still does." Sam confessed quietly.

Dean snorted, "You were twelve. I have to say, it's the ghosts that always do me in. Werewolves, vamps, some of the other things, they're _things_, ya know, actual beings. But the idea something continues, thinks, acts, and it's not really something concrete, man, that's always creeped me out."

"Me too." Sam looked up at him from under his bangs, eyes earnest, face open.

It was scary, how different, and yet how much alike he and Sam were. Warm tendrils of pride shot through his chest and up his throat; closing it for a few seconds when that thought was chased by the thought that much of Sam came from Dean's influence. Dean saw their father's influence in Sam, but more so he saw himself in a more subtle way.

"That first one, it was the freakiest thing I think I've ever seen. I'm sure it wasn't nearly as bad as I remember—"

"It was worse." Sam ground out, cutting him off.

Dean nodded, reached out and patted Sam's knee. Memory of Sam and he facing their first ghost alone—_not alone with each other_—when Sam was maybe ten at the most made his stomach and throat burn, leaving a sourness in his mouth. How could anyone have forced that on a ten-year-old? Yet their father saw no issue with it. Sam had been so shaken, Dean too if he was being completely honest with himself, they'd not been out of each other's sight for probably a week. "You slept under my bed for nearly a month after that. You never did tell me how you found the body."

"I did so."

"You just kept saying you sniffed it out."

"Dean! I _sniffed_ it out. He'd only been dead a few months. Buried in a box in the cellar and not embalmed. He was juicy. And stinky."

"Huh. I thought it was the septic tank." Dean snickered. "Hey, get this. Ben got himself attacked by a Woman In White. Must be a little brother thing." Dean ducked away from the hand swatting at his head. "Smart kid though, didn't need to drive that '37 Chevy of Jake's through so much as a piece of paper let alone the entire front of a house."

"I'm sure if Ben had to crash the car Jake wouldn't have cared two hoots as long as Ben was okay. I'm very sure he wouldn't have threatened any kind of bodily harm or death, being the world's greatest big brother and all." Sam's eyes met his steadily, though Sam picked at the edge of one of the blankets.

The look Sam gave him struck Dean completely speechless. He couldn't do more than sit and stare at Sam, knowing by his brother's expression and tone those words really weren't spoken in reference to Jake Colt.

"Dean? You alright?" Sam's voice was thin, and he was still pale.

Eyes dropping back to the journal, "Yeah, Sammy, I'm good." It was the truth too. "Around 1960 to '61 they, Jake and Ben, they found an increase of demon activity. It's amazing to me the details and patterns they put together with so few ways to gather the information. Dude, no Internet. No Weather Channel. No GPS. Yet they pieced together all sorts of facts on weather conditions, animal sacrifices and mutilations, crime scene accounts. Sam, these guys did shit we can't do, and we have more ways to get information."

"And more ways to get caught." Sam reminded him, giving him the look that read _I know you changed the subject, dumbass_.

"Well, Dad wasn't the only guy to see the patterns, but he was like them, on the job training. I don't think Jake ever got over Mary Shards' murder, or the fact her murderer wasn't caught. He mentions over and over the accounts from witnesses in crimes, arson being mentioned a lot, of a yellow-eyed man. The crimes he writes about are different, but yellow-eyes are a theme. A big time theme.

"According to this Mary's family just died off after her murder, literally. Even younger members, some were just kids. All sorts of bizarre things too. One drown, two cousins did themselves in. An aunt and uncle died of carbon monoxide poisoning it looks like from the description. Damn, accidental death when a tractor turned over on her brother and crushed him, another one hit by a car while walking home from school. The only one to live more than a few years after her was a sister. She was still alive in 1961, but it doesn't say in here when she died."

Sam was staring into his coffee mug. "Yeah. I saw something about that when I was flipping through." He said in a voice so quiet it was a miracle the mug wasn't the only one to hear him.

Now it was Dean's turn. "Hey, Sammy?"

Sam drank his coffee more slowly, barely looking up from his mug, eyebrows pulled together. "Just weird, you know?"

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Her husband was in jail when his parents and her family died, so I guess it couldn't have been him."

Holding one hand out, Sam sighed, put the coffee mug down and shifted around to a better position on the bed. Waggling his fingers in a _give me_ motion, he looked up at Dean then away just as fast. "We need details on the sister."

Dean nodded silently and handed the journal over. He swung his feet back onto Sam's bed; letting the balls of his feet touch Sam's crossed ankles. Sam cleared his throat, thumbed through to the right entry and started reading.

**June 6, 1961, Rocky River, Ohio… **

Ben looked up from the map, pointed to the next side street off Detroit Avenue, "That one." He sighed and looked at his press pass, the one he hadn't used in this city for a few years now. "Think we can do this?"

"As long as she doesn't call anyone who knew us and check up on us, yeah, my badge and your press ID probably look good enough and most people aren't going to know they're a few years old. Just act like you're telling the truth. We've been doing that, no difference really."

Ben nodded.

Jake's eyes turned away from Ben, scanning the addresses of the houses on his side of the street. The car slowing and Jake turning around in a drive to park along the opposite side of the street signaled they'd arrived at their destination.

This house was smaller than the Shards' mansion on Lake Avenue. A small, neat garden ringed the house; a lush lawn sprawled in front and behind it. Crabapple trees dotted the front. Ben could see poplars and evergreens lining the back, probably along the property line. He eyed the brand new Ford sitting in the drive, dipped his head at it and laughed in earnest at the face Jake pulled.

They stopped at the front door. Jake reached out and pushed the bell.

The woman who peeked out when the door cracked open was in her forties, plump face, a neat dress that hung below her knees. Nothing at all like her socialite sister. "Can I help you?"

Jake flashed his badge and a wide, charming grin. "Patricia Reese? I'm Detective Colt, this is my brother, Ben. He's with the Press."

Ben nodded politely.

"No pictures." She hissed out.

"No, ma'am." Ben shoved his camera bag behind his back. "I'm just required to carry it at all times. Ya know, in case there's news."

"What do you want?" She was talking to Jake, Ben felt like a nonentity. "I've talked to the police, the FBI, even Dorothy Fuldheim interviewed me. What more do you want?"

"Yes, ma'am. We saw that bit on the news." Jake drew in a deep, and Ben thought a pained breath. "I was one of the detectives called that morning. Ben took the pictures. I've never stopped trying to solve your sister's murder. Ever."

Patricia's face softened, she opened the door all the way and stepped aside. "We can talk on the back patio."

They followed her obediently through the house. Ben scanned each room quickly as they passed through the living room and out the large double picture window doors at the back. Pictures of Mary, Patricia, Mary's son as a baby and others who Ben took to be her brothers and sisters, parents, in-laws, family in general, lined the wall of a hallway heading to another part of the house.

He wondered about _this_ life: the life where he had a house, a wife, some children and a German Shepherd—and pictures on the walls. Eyes skipping to Jake's back as they followed Patricia through the house and Ben knew. He didn't want _that_ life where his brother's presence was little more than a picture on a wall. At least in this life he knew Jake was ever present, solid and dependable beside him. It was a trade off. Ben understood that. However, it was a trade off Ben was more than happy to make. Life in the suburbs or life with the only family he knew, the only person he trusted with his life. No contest really.

There'd been Darlene, how long had he known her? Ben couldn't even remember now. He sure remembered the day she told him Jake wasn't right for _their_ life. Ben knew right then and there, Jake might not have been right for Darlene, but he was Ben's family and that was all the _right_ Ben needed. Jake had been thrilled when Ben's relationship with Darlene went from casual dates to more. Too bad Darlene couldn't be thrilled with Ben's only family. It'd hurt Ben, hurt a lot, the thought that someone might expect him to cut his ties with Jake because Jake was a cop. He doubted Darlene would have given up as much as Jake to raise a sibling.

Maybe Ben could have gone far, become famous. That's sure what Darlene and Jake both had in common. The problem was, Darlene thought Ben was supposed to go far and leave Jake behind.

Besides, life with Jake was never boring and Ben's ribbing aside they had one cool car.

"I'm afraid there isn't much I can tell you at this point that you probably don't already know." Patricia stepped from the house to the patio and motioned at the lawn chairs.

"I wanted to meet you, well again. You probably don't remember talking to me that day. I wanted you to know Mary's case hasn't been forgotten and if there is anything, any tiny detail, even an unimportant one…" Jake's voice trailed off when she shook her head.

"No." Patricia's fingers played along the arm of her chair. She took a deep breath and studied the two of them for several long seconds. "She was everything to me, the only family I was ever close to. When we were growing up our parents traveled for about half the year and I took care of her more than any of our other brothers and sisters. We were the last two of all the siblings and most of the time it was the two of us. The ironic thing is I should have been dead years before her. I had cancer."

"We're sorry." Ben couldn't help thinking this was a confession of sorts and had something to do with Mary's death. He also couldn't help noticing how Jake stiffened in his chair.

"I was in the hospital in July of 1944. I remember it so clearly, Independence Day. The doctor comes in and tells me I can go home, not a sign of it anywhere. Two days before the same doctor told me I wouldn't live to see Christmas. Ten years later I lose the most important person in my life to that monster she married."

Jake's lips pressed together in a thin line. His expression was an open book to Ben. She'd lost her sister to a monster all right, but not the one she'd married. Jake had known it from those first moments Ben pointed out the sulfur, even if he had tried to deny it for a while.

"I have a post office box, the department wants to pretend this one was solved, but I know it wasn't. If you ever think of anything, _anything_, please mail it here." Jake handed her a small slip of paper.

Patricia took it and stared down at it for a while. She didn't look up at them when she spoke. "I will. You gentlemen can just go around the house to the drive."

They nodded and mumbled their good-byes. Ben followed Jake in silence to the car. The stiffness of Jake's shoulders, the way his steps here mechanical, how his fists bunched told Ben his brother was angry and frustrated. The woman had been lying then and she'd been lying now. She knew something. Something she was likely to take to her grave.

Slipping into the car, Ben twisted and dropped his camera bag onto the backseat. Jake's hands slammed hard against the steering wheel. It didn't surprise Ben much, but he jumped and flinched nevertheless.

"Mary Shards was a nice lady. Her sister is a nice lady." Jake pushed the words past clenched teeth and hit the steering wheel again.

Ben froze. He'd never in his life feared his brother, but he'd feared for him plenty of times and this was one of those times. "Do you think she saw something, or knows what it was?"

Jake's lips twitched to a snarl. "No. Maybe. Hell, I don't know. That's not the point. They deserved better, Benny. They all did. All the ones we've seen." Jake turned to him, green eyes blazing with an inner fire that was intense and vibrant. "They deserved better. We're gonna make it better. We're gonna make it stop." Cranking the engine over, Jake stomped on the gas and drove them away from Patricia Reese's home.

* * *

Jake stopped the car in front of Rocky River High School. They had maybe another fifteen minutes before the students were released for the day. While they sat quietly waiting for the students to be released Jake did his best to ignore how Ben's gaze shifted to him every few minutes. Even though Ben never seemed to mind this life they'd adopted, Jake worried about what Ben might be missing. Whenever he brought it up to Ben his brother looked at him as if he were nuts. Ben would simply shrug him off and say the only thing he was missing was living a lie.

The truth was Jake wasn't interested in another life. Once maybe but not now. He'd met many women he was happy to spend time with, but they all wanted one thing, to settle down and have a family. By the time Jake was twenty-five he'd raised a child and put him through school. He wasn't sure he wanted to do that again, in fact he was positive. There was a lot to be said for being the mysterious guy who came through town, wasted the monster, got a kiss or two and was on his way. Girls his age seemed silly and giggly and had no sense of duty or responsibility. He got intelligent conversation and a sense of belonging from Ben. He'd come to realize a while ago he didn't need a wife. No hassles, no worries about paying bills and no small child looking to him to make a world gone wrong right again.

"Hey, that's him." Ben's hand on his shoulder pulled Jake away from his thoughts. He followed the line of Ben's other arm, pointing out a boy.

Opening the door and easing out of the car, Jake groaned. "Shit," he exhaled. "I hate this beatnik hippy crap."

Ben gave him an indulgent smile, but stayed quiet as he waited for Jake to round the front of the car. They walked across the tree lawn and into the herd of teens leaving school for the day. They made their way casually to one boy who stood off from the rest. His hair was long, blunt cut across the bottom and hung in his face. A striped shirt was pulled out of his waistband as he walked away from the school.

"Hey, you Samuel Shards?" Jake sprinted ahead, slowing when he was walking beside the boy.

The kid gave him a sidelong, suspicious look then squinted at Jake. "I know you. Who's the goofy dude?" His chin jutted toward Ben.

"I am not." Ben visibly bristled.

Jake bit back a chuckle, arched one eyebrow at him, "Yes, Benny, you are."

Ben bit his lip and literally pouted.

"This is my brother, Ben. I'm Jake Colt. I…um…" how was he exactly going to say this? "I met you the day your mom died." Jake blurted the words out, meaning more to ease into it.

Benny, the dude, rolled his eyes and sighed, muttering, "Smooth." He took a step back and leaned against a tree.

Samuel straightened and squared his shoulders. Jaw pushed out, he glared into Jake's eyes. "My dad didn't have anything to do with it. No one listened, you _pigs_ wouldn't listen."

The weight of small Ben transformed into that of small Samuel pressed against him and large, round eyes looking up, pleading with him to set it right…_They're not going to come back, are they Jake? She's not going to wake up, is she_?

When Ben pushed away from the tree, Jake held one hand out behind him, keeping his brother in place. Ben found the term _pig_ far more offensive than Jake did.

"I know your dad didn't do it. That's why we're here. I was hoping you could tell me something to prove it." Jake was surprised when the boy's face softened and all hints of hostility dropped away.

"I found her. She was so bloody."

"I know." Jake said softly.

"I heard her talking to someone, but it wasn't my dad. For a few days before that I saw some old cat hanging around, he talked to my mom one day when we went to the store. He was a freak, probably tripping or something."

"How so?" Ben asked.

Samuel waved two fingers in circles next to his eyes. "Freak had these yellow eyes. Not cool."

"No." Jake agreed.

"You gonna spring my dad from the slammer?"

Jake couldn't lie to this kid, no matter how much he wanted to assure the boy his father would be free someday. "I don't know."

"I am. I'm going to make sure everyone knows my dad isn't a killer." Samuel turned and stalked away, books held tight to his side, shoulders tense, stride long.

"Whadya think?" Ben asked when the boy was out of hearing.

Jake swiveled around and started walking back to the car. "I think this whole thing is crazy."

There wasn't much for either of them to say. Settling into the car, Jake pulled away from the school.

"Now what?" Ben asked when they'd gone a few miles.

"Not hanging around here. I don't want to get caught here." Jake headed west and cut south after a few more minutes, not stopping for a few hours and when they were well outside Cuyahoga County. "Hungry?" He asked when the sun was setting.

Ben nodded. "Thought I was going to have to wait it out till breakfast." He turned a lopsided grin to Jake.

They found a place not far outside of Elyria and stopped for dinner. "I used to bust these types." Jake mumbled. Finishing up his meal, he turned in his chair far enough to watch the pool tables.

"Yeah, and before that you used to do what they did to make sure I got fed." Ben laughed softly when Jake's gaze jerked to his. "You think I didn't know what you did when we were kids? That Del caught you picking pockets?"

"Ben—"

Ben waved him off. "I'll grab some more beers and you go get in a game." Ben stood up, looking down at Jake. He couldn't do much more than sit there and stare in shock at his brother's revelation. "Sort of proud of that, how you never thought you were too good to do what was needed. Still am." Ben tapped the table with two fingers, grinned and tipped his head at the pool tables.

Jake swallowed around the comforting lump that'd taken up residence in his throat so unexpectedly. Sauntering to the pool tables, he grinned wide and friendly at the men already playing. "Can I get in on the next game?"

He almost felt sorry for them. Almost. Poor bastards didn't have a clue and hustlers made the best cops. Or was it the other way around?

* * *

They really needed to consider where they were sitting and in what position when they started reading the journal. Dean woke up; his neck craned in an awkward bend, body and limbs half in the chair and half out of it, legs still up on Sam's bed.

Dean untangled himself from the blankets, trying to stand up and do too much too fast, the chair tilting, his leg protesting his actions the entire way with sharp jabs of pain, before he collapsed in a rather unceremonious heap on the floor between their beds, groaning. Sam's breathy laughter, unsuccessfully stifled into his sleeve, met Dean as he lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, silently declaring that he was just going to take a moment right there, on the ground, and no one better have anything to say about it.

That included smart mouth little brothers.

"Smooth," Sam coughed, poking his head over the edge, looking down at him amused. "I give that one a ten. Truly original form."

"Shuddup," Dean growled, pressing the base of his palms back into his eyes, like the assault would clear away the groggy remnants of sleep with each spark that dispersed across his darkened field of vision. "You sound like a chain smoker."

Another breathy laugh rasped from the bed where Sam had ducked back out of Dean's line of sight.

"How long were you watching?" Dean asked, crossing his arms behind his head, finding little motivation to get up right now. The floor felt nice after a night in the chair and he stretched, felt his muscles and vertebrae pop and separate, spread out.

"A while. Was wondering who would win. Dean Winchester or the chair," Sam returned.

"I so won," Dean came back, good leg shooting out, kicking the chair over.

There was a laugh from Sam, followed by yet another sequence of coughing. Dean winced and silently willed it away.

Sam had gone quiet and Dean flipped a balled up sock over the bed that he'd found on the floor. "You still there?"

The mattress shifted and Dean sat up using the nightstand for support. He watched Sam put his feet down on the other side of the bed, back hunched over and shoulders sloped inward. "Yeah, just need a second. This, going back and forth thing…being someone else, losing sense of time, is messing with me a little," he said pressing fingers against the bridge of his nose.

"A little?" Dean grunted as he pulled himself up, glad Sam's back was to him as he had to shut his eyes against the pain. "I…woke up…fully expecting there to be a nice wad of pool hustling cash in my pocket." He turned out his pockets, frowning. "Nope. Still broke."

He squinted at the clock, the numbers blurring together and dancing, refusing to make sense in his head. He saw numbers, but they didn't mean anything to him. What day was it? So the clock said three…was that A.M or P.M.? He shuffled over to the window and drew back the drapes, drawing back quickly as the light hit his eyes. He heard Sam grunt his disapproval and Dean closed them.

What were they, friggin' vampires now? "We need to get out."

Sam fell back into bed. "Guh…I don't want to move…still feel crappy, Dean."

"Little fresh air might do you some good…"

"Crack the window," Sam sighed, rolling onto his side and curling up into himself.

Dean did just that and went to see if the coffee he'd made earlier was still any good. It was cold, but he drank a little anyway, the addict inside of him winning, before starting a new pot.

"Did you see anything this time, Dean?" Sam asked, muttering into his pillow before opening his eyes again.

"Did you?" Dean asked, knowing there was one thing from their 'Back to the Future' experience that he did pick up on.

"The sister…" Sam replied, eyes dropping away from Dean's.

It was the thing that had Dean curious as well. "Nineteen forty-four to nineteen fifty four, sounds like a ten year deal to me. One day her sister's pushing the veil and the next she's perfectly fine? Then ten years later, Mary ends up dead. Ten years _to the date_."

Dean caught Sam's wince, and he had to admit that saying the name "Mary" and talking about the yellow-eyed demon wasn't something his spirit was able to do without flinching. Between Mary and Samuel Shards, the case unfolding before them slowly, Dean was going to start developing a nervous tick. He didn't like it, but he didn't have to like it. For the first time in a long time they were close to figuring out more of the 'family curse.'

It did bother him that this had fallen into their laps, and watching Sam's reactions was making Dean second guess if continuing to use the journal was a good idea. Azazel was dead, but they couldn't move on, couldn't move past this. Were they ready for the truth if they found it?

It made Dean's next question one heavy with hesitation. The answer would have staggering implications for their family.

"You think?" Dean asked, easing down onto the edge of his bed. "You think Yellow-eyes was making deals?"

Sam blanched a little, turning onto his back, like he felt too vulnerable to be facing Dean at that moment. "There was no hound. Mar—She, didn't die like…like that…" Sam swallowed, throat bobbing as he continued to stare at the ceiling, leaving Dean wondering what it was Sam was seeing in that moment; fire and blood or his last birthday and Dean's last moment? "She didn't even die like…like Mom."

Dean didn't even realize he'd begun to inadvertently rub at his scars beneath his shirt, fingers mapping out the hidden testament of his death, mind recalling each one, until he pushed to his feet to move, as if doing so would stop where his mind was going. It had. Like breaking the water's surface to breathe, his mind cleared away before he could see it all play out again and he made the sudden shift in his actions seem purposeful, grabbing a bottle of water and a few pain-killers.

"Did Dad um…" Dean cleared his throat, gathering himself around his shattered thoughts. "Did Dad ever notice a pattern like this?"

Sam sat up weakly and looked like he was going to expel what little there had to be left in his stomach, wiping at his brow with his sleeve, moving away the soaked bangs from his forehead. How quickly they'd moved into uncomfortable territory…Dean was starting to wish that he'd never asked the question in the first place.

But it wasn't like Sam hadn't been thinking it. His brother had gone from waking up somewhat well and in good spirits to looking like he was trying to hold his viscera in, one arm draped protectively across his midsection, expression worried, scared. Sam shook his head to answer the question, eyes unfocused, everywhere but on Dean.

"Sadly, I think Dad wanted to find the demon so bad…he didn't see a lot of things…or maybe he did, but he didn't _want_ to see them."

_Did you see something you didn't want to see, Sammy?_ Dean's throat burned to voice the question, but he swallowed it down, felt the weight of it take up residence in his gut and sour it.

"Yeah…maybe…" Dean sighed, "The things I don't know about him…who knows?" He picked up a shirt, busying himself with something, suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin. He smelled a shirt and wrinkled his nose, tossing it in the corner before grabbing another and deciding it was good enough. "I'm gonna get a shower."

"Okay," Sam had sighed, curling up again.

"You gonna be okay?" Dean asked. How much of this was Sam being sick and how much was something else, something about all this that was tearing Sam up?

"It's just a cold, Dean…"

"Bull," Dean returned. "What's eating you?"

"What if…what if I'm connected to this demon in a way I can't change? What if I'm always going to have to live with whatever made Azazel believe I belonged to him…what if…what if a part of me is…demon?"

"It's not," Dean came back fast, voice stern and solid with resolve. "Not a cell in you is demon, Sam. You hear me? Just because he called you his…no…No! I won't believe that."

Sam's throat bobbed again as he turned his eyes back down into his pillow, nodding.

"We'll get the truth, Sam. And we're in this together, right?" Dean continued. "Look, I'm scared too that we'll learn something here, reading this journal, that we don't want to know. But there's no way that—"

"Dean…" Sam started.

"Yeah?"

"Never mind…" Sam started, eyes moist. "I'm tired. Just go…"

Dean stood there, unsure if he should.

"I'm okay," Sam sighed. "I just need more sleep. Not thinking clearly."

That did nothing to quell Dean's worry about his brother, but Sam had turned to face the wall, announcing they were done, and it was decided.

What had he said? Had he said something wrong? Here he was trying to encourage Sam and he was being told to go away?

Dean tried his best to shrug it off, hating the way it clung to him regardless as he started a shower, letting the steam fill up the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the tub for a moment, clothes shed, towel gathered around his waist, breathing in the warm moisture that was blurring out the edges of his vision into anamorphous surreality. He embraced the moment of isolation, taking as deep a breath as he could, letting it fill him up, give him an iota of strength, before he pushed through the tendrils of vapor and dashed a hand across the grayed out mirror

And all at once it seemed to fall away into clearly cut, sharp lines of perception, the pinkish-gray webbing of scar tissue greeting him mockingly in the glass surface. His hand pressed against the reflection, once again tracing over the marks there. These were there _because_ of Azazel, _because_ of sacrifice in war, _because_ of duty, and love, and honor, and fear, and the undeniable pit of sorrow born of loss.

Even though they'd won that battle against Yellow-eyes, Dean could still feel the echoes of their losses. He'd gone to Hell, they'd lost their father, and Sam was now caught up in something neither of them could understand, something that was eating away at his brother from the inside, and they still didn't know _why_. All the time spent searching, and fighting, all the things they'd survived together and been through, and they were no closer to grasping the _why_ of their family curse.

It was why Dean wasn't going to stop reading the journal. There had to be answers somewhere. Dean feared not finding anything more than he feared using something they would have salted and burned by now. He feared getting through that book only to find that there was nothing to tell him what was happening to his brother or why or what they could do to make sure the charge their father had given him was just born of fear of the unknown. Dean gripped the sink tight, angry, frustrated…

_What am I supposed to do?_

Dean closed his eyes as Sam's words filled his head, replacing his own. _What if…what if a part of me is…demon?_

_It's not!_

Something sharp had rammed its way between his lungs and his heart, twisting hard, buckling his knees, and withering the breath in his lungs. He fell against the sink before he hit the ground, curling into himself against the pain. A high-pitched whine had spirited away all other sound, leaving him deaf and disoriented on the cold, tiled floor. The amulet felt heavy, and he could feel it burning against him, his own skin heating up like a flash fire was boiling through his blood. He grabbed it to get it away from his skin and the pain stopped, the weight lifting, and all sound tunneled back through his ears starting with the beating of his heart. The steady tempo bled back into other sounds, ears crackling like fire, burning away the invisible barrier until he could hear his own breathing and the staccato beat of the shower's water against glass walls.

Dean sucked in a wet gasp, focusing each breath toward recovery as his skin wept out onto the tiled floor. The sweat was cooling him rapidly pulling him back toward movement, the pain dulling with each lungful of air.

What the hell?

He rolled onto his side, panic suddenly replacing pain, something inside of him telling him to move his ass, to check on Sam. Pulling on his jeans while clambering for the door, Dean forced it open with more strength than necessary, slamming it against the wall hard enough to knock a picture from the wall.

There was glass. Everywhere. Nothing, save the windows, was left unbroken. The television was gutted; the mirrored walls were shattered, the lights blown…

And Dean's eyes fell on Sam in the middle of it all, down between the beds, covered beneath a blanket of ragged crystalline shards, unmoving.

* * *

A/N: Deep heartfelt thanks to our readers, reviewers, and betas. We're trying to post every week. We have about ten chapters planned for this story, and several already finished. Hope you stick with us, and as always, we'd love to hear from you. ;)


	5. Chapter 5

C&W—Chapter 5

He'd known.

Something inside of Dean had _known _Sam was the one in trouble. The pain he'd experienced had been his warning shot, his wake up call, his internal alarm. Whatever the hell it had been it sparked panic, twisting it up from his gut as he was consumed by new fear replacing his pain. Fear that was telling him he needed to get to Sam. _Right_ now.

Stumbling out into the room to find it looked like someone had taken a bat to all the glass, Dean's heart caught at the sight of Sam amongst the shards, too still.

"Sammy!"

He moved as quickly as he could over the glass, trying to place his feet strategically and still get to his brother as fast as he could. It was executed semi successfully, the few cuts he sustained to the pads of his feet ignored as he reached Sam's side. Dropping down beside him despite shocks of pain snapping up and down his leg, Dean rolled Sam gently so he could see his face.

Dean was surprised to see Sam's eyes open, staring back at him with startled clarity, pupils fixing before he blinked his surprise and pushed back on Dean, trying to get him away from him.

"Sam, what the hell happened?"

Sam had skittered back against the bed, knees up into his chest, face pressed into them. "I…I wanted the remote…" Sam said, the words muted against his jeans.

"What?"

"I wanted the remote," Sam said louder.

"Sam, say something that makes sense!" Dean growled, scared, not wanting to have raised his voice, but just a few moments ago he thought he'd find Sam…he didn't want to think about in what state he would have found Sam. "Don't move, there's glass everywhere."

Sam groaned and rested his forehead back against his knees. "My head…"

Dean twisted around so he could find a path where there wasn't glass, settling back against his own bed, watching Sam, filtering through what was going on in his own head.

"Are you hurt?" His initial inspection hadn't shown any blood, any cuts.

Sam raised his gaze to Dean, tired and painfully dark beneath the hollows of his eyes. "You told me to practice."

Dean blinked, even more confused.

"My abilities, Dean…" Sam groaned out, looking like he was going to be sick. "You told me to practice them...I…I wanted the remote…but I didn't want to get up," Sam was confessing, looking agonizingly like he'd been caught stealing candy from Dean's bag when they were kids. Not that Dean wouldn't have just given it to him and did. But the lines in Sam's face were pulled so tight with fear; Dean started to realize it wasn't about what had happened. Was Sam scared how he'd react?

"I tried to move the damn thing…bring the remote to me," Sam continued. "But I got this…" Sam sucked in a breath and winced, fingers going to the bridge of his nose, squeezing it like another of his skull splitting episodes was about to commence again. "Headache…that took me down…and all the glass…just…"

Dean reached over and put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "It's okay. Just, uh, take it easy until you're better, all right?"

Sam looked up at him, eyes settling again on what Dean was constantly aware of—his scars. He hadn't imagined Sam's focus on them the night before. Sam saw them. He wasn't supposed to see them…

"Hey," Dean redirected his brother's attention. "I know I told you to try to control this thing, but not now, not when you're sick."

His attempts to keep the worry from his voice had been unsuccessful as Sam looked away, reflecting back Dean's fear in the unsure movement of his eyes as they took in the obliterated television.

Dean started to clean up what he could, aware of the cuts on his feet but trying to hide them from Sam.

"So you tried to pull a Skywalker on Hoth and blew up our TV," Dean asked, smirking. "That's kinda cool."

That got a smile from Sam. Good. Smiles were good. Smiles meant little brothers weren't freaking out to the point of facial paralysis and utter mortification.

_What if a part of me is demon?_

_No way._

Dean instructed Sam not to move as he got to his feet, starting to pick up glass around the beds, rolling up the sheets to contain a majority of it. He'd pulled on his boots and finished up the rest while Sam watched from where he'd curled up against the nightstand.

For a moment the floor tilted violently and Dean stopped, taking a measured breath slowly through his nose, eyes closed. Why did he feel so weak? Was it this? What had happened to him before he'd found Sam? Another burst of pain through his leg when he bent to sweep up the glass near the TV made him wonder if the culprit was more practical than that.

He used a T-shirt wrapped around his arm and a jacket to get up the glass, and by the time he was on his last corner of the room he felt like he needed to lay down.

"How hard did you push?" Dean asked, his fatigue making the question have more of an edge than he'd intended. "It was just a remote for crying out loud, not a dresser."

"Sorry," Sam muttered.

Dean shrugged it off, shaking his head. "No…I'm…don't apologize." He recovered, dumping the last of it into the trash before sinking down onto the edge of his bed, exhausted. He wiped at the sweat percolating his brow and looked over at Sam who had joined him. He didn't miss the look he got from Sam; the thanks laced through his half smile and fatigued eyes.

_I'm not giving up on you. We'll figure this out. You have to know that. Don't you, Sam?_

They both looked at the TV, wires and parts splayed every which way.

"I killed our television," Sam groaned.

"Now we have to go out." Dean smacked Sam's back causing him to cough a little, glad a laugh was mixed in there somewhere.

Sam shook his head, slow smile spreading. "Yeah…without a TV, no movies, we'll just have to… get into a good book…"

* * *

Sam eased backward onto his elbows then gingerly and with far less enthusiasm than usual flopped on his back on Dean's bed. The change in position and elevation set off another coughing jag. He tried letting his gratitude show through when Dean grabbed his hand and pulled him up. Sam stayed hunched over where Dean put him, really not having the energy to work out how to move or protest much at Dean's sudden desire for mothering him.

He barely paid attention to Dean shifting off the bed and back on it again seconds later. Something soft and nice was shoved behind him right before Dean shoved against Sam's shoulders. Sam scooted back, he'd somehow accumulated all the pillows in their room, which were now behind his back and head, and all but one blanket was bundled around him. He opened his mouth to protest, but the only thing that spewed out was wet, painful coughs. Yeah, that was convincing.

Dean stood up, hovered between the beds for a minute with hands on hips, shaking his head slightly. He patted Sam's knee, retrieved the laptop and set it on the bed beside Sam. "You stay put." Another pat to Sam's knee. "Try not to bring about the end of motel TV's everywhere."

"Where…?" The word cracked and bit at his throat and chest.

"I'm hungry and so are you, even if you don't know it. Sit tight, I'll get you something warm that will go down easy and hopefully stick in there and not end up on my shirt."

He managed to get out, "You're not wearing a shirt."

Dean looked down at himself and grinned. "I'll get free food this way, Sammy."

Sam rolled his eyes and watched as his brother extracted clean clothes, slipped them on, followed by his jacket. Jangling his keys, Dean waved a bye and ducked out the door.

Opening the laptop…when the heck did Dean recharge the batteries?...Sam sat and stared at it as it booted up, gazing at his reflection in the black screen. A second later the screen flicked to the loading background. Images of Mary Shards' and pictures he'd seen of his own mother intermingled over his reflection.

_It's you_. They accused.

Blinking, Sam shook his head. Great now his laptop was haunted too. The screen turned to blue.

_It's you. Sam's a bomb. You were always my favorite, Sammy. Check out your mother's friends and family. Dad said I might have to kill you, Sammy…it's you…you…it's YOU_.

Sam jumped when the screen flashed to his desktop (a drawing of a devil's trap he and Dean had done one afternoon screwing around with an art program boosted online) and icons popped up signaling the machine was ready to roll. His fingertip moved over the mouse pad, one tap and the browser opened. He needed to search out new hunts.

Man died in a locked room, maybe. Where did Dean go? Oh yeah, for food.

_What happened to my mother's friends?_

Pigs roasted without fire spit…maybe…but euuwww…no. Dean just left a few minutes ago, wanted to get them something to eat. Sam hoped Dean didn't bring back pork chops.

_Every one of Mary Shards' relatives died within a few years of her…_

Four teens and six teachers commit suicide at the same school within a month…possibly. They needed to eat.

…_except her sister and her son. _

People found with lungs full of sand…ooohh. How long has it been? Too long, Dean's been gone too long. Dean's scent still clung to the pillow Sam's head rested against.

_Sam's a bomb._

Same people have skin and muscle shredded from their limbs, looks like sand blasting…okay…yeah. Sam was alone. Maybe Dean hadn't been gone long. Sam turned his head far enough to press his nose against the pillow, closed his eyes and breathed in deeply.

_It's you_…

His father thought he had to be put down. He missed Dean and wished he would come back.

_What happened to my mother's friends_?

Dean would go back to Hell before he killed Sam.

_Always my favorite, Sammy_…

So, Dean couldn't kill Sam, but he could drive away, leave.

_Dean's going to Hell and you can't stop it_.

All alone.

_Dad said I might have to kill you, Sammy. Dad said…Dad said…It's you, Mom said that…it's you_.

They both knew what they'd created. Both knew the monster had to end. The room smelled like Dean, maybe he hadn't been gone very long after all.

_It's you…Sam's a bomb_.

Shred the flesh from their bones, filled their bodies with grit and sand. Eat the meat. Long, bloody chunks pulled from their arms and legs…_humans, the other white meat_. End the monster, the monster could end him, strip his meat from his bones and eat it before filling his body with sand and grit.

_Dad said_…_Dad said…Dad said kill me…Dad said…it's you…Sam's a bomb_…

"Sam."

_Dad was an ass_!

Something firm and warm landed on Sam's shoulder. It'd come for him and strip his flesh and—it wouldn't matter, Dean's gone away. All alone. Better this way.

"Sam, take it easy there, kiddo, just me."

Jerking upright brought a sharp jab to his chest and forced a cough to rattle around inside for a few seconds before bashing against his tongue and teeth to break out. Sam looked up in time to see Dean catch the laptop.

Sam's eyelids drifted down then back up more slowly than he'd wanted them to. It took a few seconds to focus on Dean's face. "You came back."

Holding the laptop in both hands, Dean peered over the top at him. "Yeah, that's what a food run is, Sammy. One of us goes out, gets the food, and comes back. You okay?"

"You're limping." Sam's voice sounded thin and far away to his ears.

Cocking his head to one side, Dean shrugged. "At least I'm not out taking a little mental break."

"They all died." There he'd said it. Flat, matter of fact, without freaking out he'd spoken the words. Dean needed to know the truth, everything.

Dean's eyes drifted to the laptop he held and faked a shudder, "Eek, no kidding. Sam this is horrible. No wonder you have nightmares."

Sam was swaying slightly. He gripped the side of the bed with one hand. "Mom's friends, dead, every one of them. Everyone she was related to that I could find—same thing, dead. All dead and gone."

"How long have you known?"

Meeting Dean's eyes was impossible, so he stared at Dean's knees. "Ruby told me—"

Dean snorted, "Oh, fine source."

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly so it didn't turn into coughs, Sam continued, "Ruby told me and I didn't believe her, so I checked. Her parents died before she married Dad. Neither of them had brothers or sisters. Well, actually Mom did, she had a big brother, but he died, he was three weeks old, it was SIDS. Just like Mary Shards, everyone in her life died."

"Not everyone, Sam." Dean set the laptop on the table between them and laid one hand on Sam's shoulder. "Not us."

That made Sam look up at Dean; really look at him. He'd kept this from his brother for more than a year. She was Dean's mother too, maybe even more so. Dean had the right to know. There was nothing on Dean's face other than concern.

"Is that what's had you so worked up? Is that why you've been making remarks about me going away? Sam, why didn't you just tell me?" The sheer kindness in Dean's tone startled him. Dean should be angry with Sam for not telling him right away, had every right to be angry. Yet what seemed to concern Dean more was how this was affecting _Sam_.

"What difference would it have made? I didn't know anything for sure, and I didn't want to…" He took a deep breath, collected his thoughts, straightened his back and plunged ahead. "Everything I know about her, Mom, I know from you and a bit from Dad. I don't remember her, what her voice sounded like, what she smelled like. I wouldn't even know what she looked like if it weren't for some pictures you showed me. She was my mother, but she was your _mom_. There's a difference. You remember things. You didn't get them second hand. Until we read about Mary Shards' family in Jake's journal, the only thing I could see happening if I told you was it would hurt you. I wanted something more concrete. And honestly, I was more concerned with keeping my brother, who was alive and who I'd known my whole life, that way than finding out facts about a dead parent I can't even remember."

"Not all of them died, Sam." Dean said quietly. He stood there, between the beds hand still on Sam's shoulder. "We're here." Dean's hand fell away and a second later a container appeared under Sam's nose. "I got you beef barley."

He obediently took the soup and continued talking between swallows. Dean sat in the chair beside him. "There was no uncle. We never had an uncle. Mom never had an uncle. When did Dad meet Bobby?"

"You were about four or five I think." Why was it every question of that nature was met by an answer of Sam's age? Dean squinted at him for a second then realization dawned on his face. He shrugged. "Dad told me an uncle paid for Mom's headstone. I always assumed he meant our uncle. Maybe from Dad?"

"No," Sam shook his head. "As far as I can tell Dad was hatched."

Choking, soup spitting from the sides of his mouth, Dean wiped one hand over his chin. "Crap, Sam, warn a guy."

"Somebody found him in a police station bathroom. He was about three weeks old. The station was on Winchester Avenue."

"No wonder he never gave us more details other than he had no family. Still a cool name." Dean poked at Sam's hand, getting him to swallow down more soup.

"Yeah." Sam agreed. "There's nothing else until he enlisted when he was eighteen."

"So, you think what, Mom made some kind of deal?" Dean finished his meal and leaned back a bit. "Why? For what purpose? Where's the ten-year span? I know they both graduated high school in seventy-two, married in seventy-seven, I was born in seventy-nine and you in eighty-three. There's no ten year span in there." Dean's eyes narrowed, he shifted around and leaned closer to Sam. "What else is there?" The suspicion in his voice made Sam wince.

"I wasn't going to wake up."

"I know, that's why I—"

"In Wyoming, after the hellhounds, after you…I wasn't going to wake up. I took your jacket 'cause it smelled like you. You told me to keep on fighting but I couldn't…I didn't care. I figured if I drank enough and passed out my body temp would be low enough, it'd still be cold enough..."

Dean went completely still. The color dropped from his face, leaving him white with dark smudges under his now too wide eyes. Yeah, that was a heck of a great distraction. He was sick of keeping secrets, of lying to _Dean_.

"I…um…found a few things online, some cases maybe. One was weird, even on our scale of weird." Sam suddenly needed Dean to talk, to hear his voice, even if it was to scream at Sam.

"How weird?" Dean wiped a shaking hand over his face. His voice was raw, and Sam caught how it trembled. It hadn't escaped him that Dean tracked important things in their lives by Sam's age at the time or how this revelation about their mother was met with far less reaction than the revelation from Sam that he intended suicide after Dean died.

"Makes the Donner Party look mild weird."

_It's you_.

"It's a fluke of some kind, Mom and Mary Shards. I doubt Mom even knew what a demon was."

_It's you_.

"Yeah." Sam nodded. He had to tell Dean everything he'd seen. _H_e _had_ to.

_It's you_.

"We can look into that one later. Seems to me right now we're on a case, we have a hunt." Dean picked up the journal.

_It's you_.

Sam swallowed around the raw spot in his throat and nodded. "I was going to read it some more while you were gone, but I wanted to _see_ it. Besides I figured you'd kick my butt for doing that."

_It's you_.

"You figured right." Dean grinned and twisted around in the chair so his feet were propped on the bed, toes brushing Sam's ankles like he had before. His eyes traveled a slow, deliberate path around the room. Scooting the chair closer and angling it so he faced Sam more, Dean huffed a laugh. "How is it you get both beds, all the pillows and what I get is this chair and one ratty blanket?"

"You could have just said something if you wanted another pillow." Sam sat up far enough to pull one free and dumped it on Dean's face. He let his hand drop onto the arm of Dean's chair so his fingers just brushed against the material of Dean's shirt.

"Thought I just did."

_It's you_.

Dean opened the journal and began to read, his deep voice rumbling through the room. Sam slid farther down in the bed, listening more to the sound of Dean than the words he spoke.

_It's you_. _It's you. It's you_…

The words faded away, replaced by Dean's voice and another memory, a far older one surfacing as sleep tugged at Sam. The words of the journal mingled with the words of a song Dean used to sing to him when he was small. Sam smiled and let the lyrics tumble through his head and dispatch the words of a mother he'd never known…

_I was cruisin' in my Stingray late one night, then an XKE pulled up on the right. He rolled down the window of his shiny new Jag, and challenged me then and there to a drag. I said, "You're on buddy -- my mill's running fine. Let's come off the line now at Sunset and Vine_…

**Northeast Michigan, August 17, 1968**

…_But I'll go you one better, if you've got the nerve, Let's race all the way -- to Dead Man's Curve" Dead Man's Curve is no place to play. Dead Man's Curve you'd best keep away. Dead Man's Curve I can hear 'em say: "Won't come back from Dead Man's Curve"_…

The words reverberated through Ben's head. He skidded to a stop in the sand and clamped his lips shut when he realized he was mouthing the words to the song Jake had been singing.

He spun around, shotgun in hand, did a complete three sixty, eyes darting around the deserted sand dunes. Where there'd been a voice, his brother's voice, singing softly as they made their way through the sand, there was now silence. Moonlight glinted off the dunes, damp with humidity making the air around him shimmer in eerie waves. Beads of sweat trickled down his sides making his skin flinch away from the itch.

"Jake!"

The only thing that answered Ben was the sound of his own harsh breathing.

Jake was never silent. When Ben was small Jake sang to him every night. As he got older Jake sang just because he could, never loud, it was a soft undertone to much of Ben's life. He mumbled out words to songs, voice low and deep, while they hunted so Ben could track him if they separated. It kept them together, kept them from ever really being alone. Ben hadn't spent a single day of his life alone.

"_JAKE_!"

Whirling around when sand sprayed into the air and rained back down again, Ben fired blindly into the dust cloud. A second fountain of sand erupted and he spun again, firing through nothing but sand again. He reloaded.

Where was Jake? He'd been right there, not five feet from Ben, singing that stupid _Jan and Dean_ song Ben hated just to annoy him no doubt. The wind blew sand around and…

Ben had the shotgun up and was firing a third time before he barely registered the movement. He could hear Jake's words bounce through his head—_taught you better, Benny_—Jake was going to kick his ass for shooting blindly. Jake _had_ taught him better, much better. It'd been Ben who insisted on starting this thing, taking down these supernatural creatures, but it was Jake who'd become the hunter.

Jake taught Ben to shoot a gun and throw a knife, defend himself with no weapons but his hands. Jake taught Ben _everything_. How to shave, pick up girls, never how to hustle at pool or poker though. Even in college, it was Jake who'd helped Ben get his assignments done and later after he graduated and started being a real photographer…Jake taught him to _see_ the picture hiding in the real life. Ben found the things they used against these monsters. Jake put them into practice.

Ben dropped to one knee long enough to reload again.

"_What do you call this thing again, Benny?"_

"_Aigamuxa."_

"_Jesus, Ben, why do they all have to sound like something sneezed them out? Just tell me how to kill it."_

_Grinning Ben held up a shotgun. "Good ole consecrated iron rounds to the head."_

"_Great." Jake snorted and ducked Ben's swing. "Try not to waste all our ammo. Maybe someday soon you'll hit something without shooting at it three times first."_

Footfalls behind him made Ben jerk around again, shotgun up, but he didn't fire. Memory of Jake's fingers on his elbow—_take your time, line up your shot_—his voice in Ben's ear coaching him through his first encounters with firearms—_if it's moving sight just ahead of it or you'll miss_—Ben drew a deep breath, widened his stance, and fired just ahead of the upward spiraling sand.

"_If it's from Africa, how'd it get here?"_

"_Hitchhiked. The killings started about a week after the Detroit Art Institute got themselves a new exhibit from Africa. The killings continued west until it found a place more like home. And here we are in Warren Dunes."_

"_Sand." Jake grumbled out and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he and Ben pushed to the top of yet another dune. "Why can't anything ever haunt the Ritz Carlton at dinnertime?"_

"_It fills its victims' lungs and throat with sand. While the person is fighting to breathe it eats them. Alive."_

_That's when Jake started singing just loud enough Ben could hear him_.

Ben fired. This time the sand not only dissipated, it screamed.

"Gotcha you bastard. JAKE!"

Flipping from its hands to its feet, the creature staggered at him, Ben fired again. The bullet grazed its thick neck where it met its blocky head. The Aigamuxa somersaulted and dove at the sand, vanishing.

Ben charged to the spot. Dropping to his knees, he used the end of his shotgun to dig. "No! NO! You can't have him! You don't get him!" Tears mingled with sweat and sand as Ben dug frantically. He tossed the gun aside and began using both hands, ignoring how the sand bit and ground into freshly opened, bloody wounds along his fingertips.

Sand rolled down from higher up on the dune, jerking Ben's eyes in that direction. It didn't erupt. Instead it mounded and slid gently away from something…

"Jake." This time Ben's voice was a raw, pained whisper.

Up and running on shaking legs that felt like wet noodles, he slipped and slid through the sand, sweat rolling between his shoulder blades, Ben fell next to the growing mound of sand.

His fingers protested the abuse from sweat and sand, but Ben once again ignored it using his fingers to paw at the course, biting grains.

It took a few seconds of digging to clear sand from Jake's face. He was so still, so pale. "Jake, God, Jake." Ben's voice shook, his insides vibrated. He barely registered the movement near his legs until something gripped his arm.

Jerking to the side, Ben let out a long, quivering breath when he saw Jake's fingers curling around his elbow. He grabbed Jake's hand and pulled. Jake sat, hunched over and coughing out sand. It dripped from his hair and out of the creases of his clothes.

"Are you…Jake?" Ben laid one hand on the side of Jake's neck.

Jake raised his eyes to meet Ben's, nodding. His other hand wiped over his mouth, brushing sand-soaked spittle away. Moving his legs up and down Jake unearthed his shotgun.

"Where?" Jake ground out.

"I—I don't know. I shot it, hit it, I know I did. Then it sank into the sand."

"Okay. How many shots?" Jake tilted his head to one side and smirked while he landed a hand solidly on Ben's shoulder. "Help me—"

Ben didn't have to do anything other than see the way Jake's face morphed from his brother to something cold, hard and dangerous. As he started to twist around, both of Jake's hands gripped his shoulders, threw him backwards and down at the same time. In the next instant, Jake's weight was against his side, pinning him to the ground.

Shotgun blasts, two of them, exploded the air around them, the noise seared straight through Ben's head.

The Aigamuxa and its sand blew out in all directions.

"Three." Ben exhaled when Jake turned to look at him. A hand against Jake's shoulder got his brother to his feet.

Hand going to the back of Ben's neck, Jake patted him a few times. "You're improving. _Finally_."

"I thought it—"

Jake cut him off quickly, "It didn't. And now it's dead." Grinning wickedly, Jake tugged on Ben's sleeve, "It don't come back from Dead Man's curve," he sang.

Ben couldn't help himself, chuckling and smiling back at Jake he added, "Go baby, go baby, go." His eyes wandered up and down the nearest dunes. "Did you get it in the head?"

"I shot at the top, isn't that where the head traditionally is?"

Making paddling motions in front of him, Ben said in a rush, "It runs on its hands."

"Oh." Jake turned a circle, scanning the area. "Maybe we should check, but I'm sure I hit its head not its ass." His eyes dropped to Ben's hands. "Benny." He breathed out softly. Pulling a rag from his back pocket, Jake gently wrapped Ben's right hand, which was cut up the worst. "C'mon, let's be sure about this thing then get you fixed up."

Jake was sure he'd ended the Aigamuxa, but still he and Ben trudged up and down the dunes until sunrise. They found nothing, no bones, no oozing monster glop, and no brittle shell of a body, none of the usual things they saw when something they hunted bit the dust. That didn't mean it wasn't dead Jake had pointed out to Ben. Ben countered with it didn't mean it _was_ dead.

Ben was always such a bundle of cheer and optimism.

When Ben started stumbling more than walking, Jake called a halt to the whole thing. They'd wait around the area. If the thing were still alive, it would start feeding again in a day or two. It was all they could do.

A week later, despite Ben's doubts, they drove away, following the lakeshore south and west. They traveled back roads on their way to Wolf Lake. Jake saw no farther ahead than the span of the car's headlights. Trees, mere shadows of reality, flew along the roadside, and Jake couldn't help but wonder what else might lurk in their depths. It was warm and muggy, the stars barely visible through the hazy atmosphere.

He had to cover the remnants of the cough he had from eating so much sand. Jake shuddered. If Ben hadn't found him when he had and gotten him free of the sand…well he didn't want to think about it. He glanced over at Ben who perpetually looked like an overgrown child when he slept, bangs falling over his face, lower lip stuck out ever so slightly.

When he got too tired to drive he'd wake Ben and have him drive until they reached their destination, no way were they camping out in these out of the way woods.

* * *

The sky was barely lightening from night and it was already hot, it was going to be another scorcher, when Jake pulled down a dirt drive and stopped alongside a building. It was small, about three miles outside an equally small town and a regular stop for Jake and Ben. Jake might not have been a cop for a long time, but he used the skills he'd learned on the police force almost daily. One of those skills was developing a network of informants.

This was one such place—off the beaten track outside a small Illinois town near Wolf Lake: a nondescript roadhouse offering a cool drink and a bed to those passing through the area along the shores of Lake Michigan. He cut the engine and slowly swung out of the car and stood upright. He was getting too old to spend so long sitting in their car. The muscles along his back and legs pulled and mumbled at him when he stretched. His back popped louder than he really cared to admit.

A quick glance back at Ben brought a smile to Jake. Leaning forward, the heels of Ben's hands pressed to his eyes before he tried stretching in the car. Their Chevy was big, but not that big. Jake saw the scowl spread over Ben's face from there when Ben's elbow bumped the car door.

Jake ambled into the roadhouse, taking off his hat as soon as he crossed the threshold, nodding a hello to the elderly black man behind the bar. "Mr. Turner." A family sitting at one of the tables turned a curious eye on him, but Jake pretended he didn't notice. He supposed there weren't a lot of white people making a pit stop at this place, and even fewer would call the owner _mister_.

"Ya got some mail here, Jake."

Sliding onto a stool, Jake grinned and turned far enough to watch Ben wander through the door, rubbing the back of his neck and yawning. "Got some coffee?"

A toddler sprinted away from the table with the family around it and ran headlong into Ben's legs, bounced off and landed on his butt, wailing. "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey, sorry." Ben scooped the kid off the ground and turned to look for obvious parents. Across the room in a few strides, Ben handed the child back to his parents. "Sorry about that. I didn't even see him. He's okay."

Jake saw how the adults wore expressions that turned from alarm to surprise. Jake never saw skin color and he'd raised Ben to be the same way. The woman nodded and took her child from Ben, probably too stunned to say anything. Ben flashed her a smile and lumbered toward the bar.

He ripped open the envelope and extracted the letter while Ben took a seat beside him and proceeded to slurp his coffee. "Ben, get your own."

"Yours is better." Ben looked up when a tall, gangly teen appeared from the kitchen. "Hey, Rufus. How are you?"

The boy, Rufus, broke into a grin; Ben matched it with one of his own. "I got accepted."

Jake looked up from his letter as Ben clapped Rufus' back saying, "See, I _told_ you so."

"Yep, my Rufus is going to be the first one in my family to graduate high school let alone go off to college."

"You let us know if you need any help with anything, Mr. Turner." Jake said to the man behind the bar.

The man waved one hand, "We'll be great. Don't you worry none Jake."

Sighing, Jake took his coffee back, and jerked a thumb at Ben. "Can he have his own?"

Ben poked his side then leaned over to read the paper Jake held. A newspaper clipping from farther west and a note from a contact, _witness reported seeing a man with yellow eyes like a cat_. Jake's eyes met Ben's for a few seconds before Jake carefully folded the note and clipping and stuffed it in his back pocket.

"_Ben, you're going. This is an acceptance letter!"_

"_How can I afford to go to college? You can't pay for everything."_

"_You're going, Benny. We'll find a way, we always do."_

Jake slid a fifty-dollar bill across the bar. "I think we need to buy Rufus some breakfast to celebrate, don't you, Benny?"

"Heck yeah." Ben smiled and nodded thanks for his own cup of coffee. "Uh, can we celebrate with some eggs too?"

Rufus' grin nearly split his face in two. His father's eyes, filled with pride and gratitude met Jake's. They understood one another. Jake sat quietly, sipping his coffee and listening to Rufus chatter away at Ben about the school he was going to.

This last hunt, it was a close one, too close. Jake couldn't help but watch Ben and think about the day to come. The day one of them was alone. Jake felt a twinge, like a pinprick at the base of his skull. What would happen when there was only one of them?

* * *

Dean was staring at his hand and the journal under it for a few minutes before he even registered he was awake. Rufus Turner, the name nagged at him until it came to him, he'd met the man, forty years later, a few short weeks before he'd…

_The day one of them was alone_.

He carefully laid the journal on the table, moving slow and deliberate to loosen the tightened muscles of his legs. Using his hands, Dean lifted himself from the chair. A quick glance at Sam to be assured his brother was still asleep, Dean stopped when Sam snuffled in his sleep, shifted and resettled. Biting his lip to keep the moan from getting out as a steady ache filled his entire lower leg, Dean stood and straightened.

Using the chair, then dressers as braces, Dean put more weight on his hands than his feet on his way to the bathroom.

_Did you see something you didn't want to see, Sammy?_

Hobbling across the floor, Dean had to breathe in deep to keep from doubling over. He really wanted a shower. He really _needed_ a shower. Leaving the bathroom door cracked enough Sam would hear him if he woke up, Dean slowly eased out of his clothes and cranked the shower on full. Sam was freaked out and not over his news flash about their mother's friends, and not from the fact he'd tried to kill himself after Dean died. That tidbit had unhinged Dean enough to distract him from what was really going on.

He turned what he knew over in his head. None of it made sense. What was the point of killing off everyone a person was close to? Demons were foul creatures, but they followed specific patterns and they made sense. The only explanation Dean could fathom was to cut any survivors—_children_—from any ties to their parents or their past.

Again, why?

Dean should be royally pissed at Sam for keeping this from him. Dean _wanted_ to be royally pissed at Sam, but he couldn't. It would only make the situation worse.

_A weapon is only as good as the man who wields it_.

There was more. Dean _knew_ there was more.

_Did you see something you didn't want to see, Sammy_?

Sam was upset, bothered by what he'd discovered about Mary Winchester's friends, but there was something deeper. Something else that Sam knew or _thought_ he knew. It went beyond unsettling Sam to something that terrified the kid so completely it was doing to Sam's insides what had been done to the outsides of the people in the pictures on Sam's laptop. Tearing him to shreds.

He rolled his shoulders and dipped his head, letting hot water run over him. What would so completely shatter Sam that he was afraid to talk about it? Afraid to talk to Dean about it. Afraid _of_ Dean because of it.

Dean's head snapped up so fast he nearly hit the showerhead. Turning off the water and stepping clear, drying off and dressing all the while chewing his lip, Dean realized that's what had been gnawing at him for a while now. There was something making Sam afraid of _him_. Sam had something locked in his head. Dean could see it in his brother's eyes, the deep down, raw terror this knowledge sparked.

Wiping one hand over the mirror to clear the steam, "But what the hell is it?" He asked his reflection. "You got nothing either? Lots of help you are."

When he stepped clear of the bathroom, Sam had moved from bed to table and was hunched over his laptop. He looked up, eyes skipping across Dean's face for an instant before they went back to the laptop screen.

Dean stopped so quickly it was as if he'd hit a brick wall. Sam looked so _alone_. Whatever this was, it wasn't that Sam was afraid of telling him, it wasn't that Sam was afraid of his reaction. It was fear _of_ Dean, pure and simple. It was cutting Sam off, separating them; making Sam fear Dean so completely he was losing the sense of security they'd always given each other.

He let the idea rumble around his head. Cut Sam off from everything, every_one_ he knew and depended on. Cut Sam off from Dean.

Sam would be left completely alone, wounded, torn open, vulnerable to manipulation. To do that, demons needed Dean out of the way.

That just wouldn't do. Wasn't happening.

Sam was being manipulated. Dean too. Dean would have thought the information Ruby gave Sam about their mother's friends was false, but there was proof to back it up in a murder from sixty plus years ago.

Whatever it was, it was theirs. They were in this together. They always had been and always would be. Sam had to be made to understand he wasn't alone. Dean was never someone to be feared.

_A weapon is only as good as the man who wields it. __Did you see something you didn't want to see, Sammy_?

Dean wasn't going to get what he didn't give.

Plastering on a smile, he marched across the room. "Still some hot water, I bet you'll feel tons better after a shower."

Sam looked up at him, not quite meeting his eyes. "Dean," he began voice soft and hesitant. "About Mom and that stuff, I—"

"It's okay, Sammy." He rested his hand on Sam's shoulder, felt how the tenseness oozed out of his brother. "I get it, why you didn't say anything. I'd probably done the same thing." Parents dead and gone weren't worth losing little brothers alive and here.

Dean saw the relief start in Sam's face and travel the entire length of his body. Finally Sam looked _at him_. Dean gave the shoulder under his hand a squeeze. "It's you and me in this. We'll figure everything out, we will." There it was again, that spark of stark raving terror in Sam's eyes. It flared then was covered up. "Is there more, 'cause dude, you know you can tell me anything, right?" _You do know that, don't you, Sammy_?

"Just a list of how each person died."

Not the answer Dean was looking for, but it was a start. A part of that sense of security was restored. Dean nodded, "Okay, we can go through that later. Together. See what _we_ can find. Go get a shower, and then we'll go out and grab some food. We really do need some air." He glanced at the laptop. "Whatcha doing there?"

"Huh? Oh, I was curious about the Aigamuxa. What they described is similar to those killings I found, and in the same area."

"The name does sound like something someone sneezed." That earned him a smile from Sam. Dean liked those little smiles. "You go shower and I'll poke around on this thing and see what I can come up with."

Sam hit a button and a different screen appeared. "I did find out they sort of hibernate and they can't camouflage when they're dead."

Dean groaned and let his shoulders sag for affect. Jostling Sam's chair until he was out of it and Dean could sit down. "You up for this?" Sam stopped halfway across the room and looked back at Dean. "Because we only do this if we do it _together_." Sam swallowed and nodded. Dean hoped the message got through.

"Not really like we can ignore it and not do anything." Sam said. "It looks like from what I read there, it has a forty year hibernation cycle."

"Of course it does." Dean grinned, "Okay then, you and me, _us_, we'll go fight the bad thing that sounds like what your lungs hack up."

"Okay."

"Right after breakfast." Dean said and twisted around to face the computer and the Aigamuxa.

* * *

A/N: _Dead Man's Curve_ is by Jan and Dean.


	6. Chapter 6

C&W—Chapter 6

Dean watched the headlights of passing cars slide over Sam's face, shadows deepening the worried creases in the drawn lines of his skin. Sleep didn't look restful or peaceful for his brother, brows knitting and relaxing, the soft moans of discomfort or nightmares—Dean couldn't tell which—slipping past his lips. Face pressed up against the passenger side glass, head resting on a shirt Dean had donated as a makeshift pillow, Sam had been sleeping since Toledo. They were almost to the dunes, and Dean was having gnawing doubts about dragging Sam along with him. The doubts had been there since the motel, and had chewed a ragged hole through his certainty long before they'd reached the lower west side of Michigan.

Then again, Dean couldn't leave Sam alone. And it wasn't as if they couldn't pretend they hadn't stumble upon a forty-year-old, unfinished hunt and leave it open for the next hunters to come along and find forty years later. What were the odds that this would fall into their laps now? Dean's mind was still grinding away through the things they'd learned from Colt's journal. They were bound to a path the moment they'd opened that book. The course of their journey was out of their control, and Dean wasn't sure he liked that feeling. As a matter of fact, he hated it.

Their unwavering sense of duty drove them forward, but Sam's fitful sleep, the fever he'd been battling, the way he looked too young and too small folded in on himself against the door was making every motel they passed a resolve-breaking temptation.

A short, sharp intake of breath drew Dean's gaze back toward Sam as he stirred, bleary eyes turning to Dean for a moment, unfocused.

_I wasn't going to wake up…_

"How you holding up?" Dean asked, pressing down Sam's confession and its cohorts of guilt and pain.

_If I hadn't come when I had…Sammy…_

Sam curled up tighter against the door, hoodie re-covering his eyes, subsequently masking the truth. "Fine. Think that second fever broke about an hour into the trip."

They were coming up on another lakeside inn and Dean took a chance, already knowing the response that he would get.

"Maybe I should take this one alone…"

A scoff slid out from somewhere beneath Sam's hood. He uncovered his head, revealing sweat-soaked bangs; fever-worn eyes suddenly alight with fight.

"You're the one with the bum leg and I'm the one who should sit this one out?" Sam challenged.

"You did _see_ that thing, right?" Dean replied. "Freaky ass son of a bitch…like that creature in _Pan's Labyrinth_with the eyes in its hands…but it's in its _feet_ and it moved like…like that janitor from _Silent Hill, _legs contorted up over its head so it can see. And did you see its teeth? It moved too fast for a dude crawling along its his hands."

Sam snorted. "You watch too many movies, man. And if that was supposed to convince me to stay out of this, you need to work on your scare tactics. 'Cause that's even more reason for me to come. Especially since I've seen geriatrics move faster than you're moving right now." His He went silent for a moment, eyes back out onto the road, the dunes looming on either side of them. Realization dawning, he huffed out a laugh and turned skeptical eyes back to Dean. "_You_ actually sat through a Spanish subtitled film?"

"Oh, _that's_ why I couldn't understand a thing they were saying," Dean returned.

"They broke the mold with you, Dean."

"Is it that hard to believe that I'm a cultured guy?" Dean asked, feigning hurt, poorly by Sam's _I'm not buying it_ smirk.

Sam's eyes danced in challenge as he quirked up the side of his lip. "Is _pop_ a real, legitimate culture?"

"I can speak Spanish," He contended. "¿Donde está el baño? Un tequila más por favor. Err…sometimes that has to be in reverse order."

Sam laughed, smiling softly to himself before turning toward the window.

_I wasn't going to wake up…_

Dean closed his eyes breifly against the image of Sam curled up on the floor of that shack, rain soaked and cold, barely breathing…

"I did see _it_, Dean. And you're not facing an aigamuxa alone. My cold can…" He stopped and coughed into the sleeve of his hoodie, sniffing up the remnants miserably. "…go screw itself…"

_A cold?_ Dean mused to himself. _Is that what we're calling __**this **__now?_

Dean rolled his shoulder, stretching out the tightness that had bound it up, the heat there spreading with a pull of pain. He could feel Sam's eyes on him as he suppressed a reaction, jaw taut against the reverberation along his synapses. He was afraid to move his leg. He'd dressed it this morning, cleaned it out…

"How close are we?" Sam asked, almost suspiciously.

"Almost there." Dean admitted, knowing that would get him in trouble, bracing himself for the lecture.

"I was supposed to drive the last half, Dean."

He ticked up a shoulder. "You needed sleep."

Sam's eyes held his disdain for that answer, reminding Dean: _I'm not the only one._

"How's the leg?"

"Never better."

"_God_, you're so full of it."

Dean loved Sam too.

Sam reached for the folder he'd brought with them, information he'd gathered about the hunt. He hadn't been feeling up to looking through it all at the start of their trip, but with some of the sleep afore-argued as necessary, Sam was back and ready to tackle this.

Watching Sam slide back into routine, laying out the hunt, making sure they were both on the same page caused a warm pride to build in Dean's gut. He'd missed this. Even if he hadn't been gone that long by this world's clocks, and he couldn't remember what happened to him _down there_, he'd have moments where something would fill a void he hadn't been fully aware that he had…

This moment was one of them.

"So, the aigamuxa—"

"Gesundheit."

Sam raised a brow. "German too?"

"What can I say? Jack of all trades."

"Master of none," Sam muttered lovingly. "Like I was saying, forty year cycle for this thing, and as luck would have it, if I calculated the cycle right, we have _tonight—_"

"Of course we do."

"—to get rid of it, make sure it doesn't kill anyone else, and disappear for forty more years. Because _then_…then we have to come back and kill it when we're in our sixties. Well, you'll be seventy…"

Dean didn't miss Sam's barely rueful grin. Dean's thirtieth was coming up, and he was frequently reminded of that fact at Sam's amusement.

"If we don't kill this thing and _if_ I make seventy, that aigamuxa's got one hell of a mean-ass seventy-year-old coming for it." Dean stated.

"_If _you make seventy?" Sam started, and Dean heard the underlying questions there. _How long do you think you'll live? Will I have to live without you again? If one of us has to go before the other…you think it will be you, Dean?_

Leave it to Sam to load so friggin' much into one simple four-word inquiry.

"Not exactly likely, Sam. Considering…you know…_both_ of us has already died before thirty."

"I know…just…we're here now, and…" Sam had started to wall up, seemingly trapped between a confession of his dependence and trying to shrug off Dean's indifference.

Dean shrugged up a shoulder. "You want to be doing this when you're old?"

"No…not really," Sam admitted, and Dean watched defeat settle into the sad sag of his shoulders through this slip.

"I haven't exactly heard of many retired hunters," Dean added.

The only one he had met hadn't exactly painted a pretty picture. Rufus. According to him, you either died young or turned out some lonely, embittered bastard with only your Johnny Walker Blue to keep you sane. Seeing Rufus through Jake's eyes, when he was younger, just accepted into college, when his eyes held purpose…the comparison to Sam at that age was staggering.

It was hard to imagine the same bitterness embedded in his brother's eyes. No. He could see it, _had_ seen it; the deadness of light and hope. And he never wanted to see it again.

Sam was curling the edges of the papers with his fingers, lost in thought. The silence ground away inside of Dean, knowing he'd caused it, and he sighed to clear it from their presence.

"Let me just put it this way then, Sammy…if it's between chasing kids off my lawn or coming back here after this thing, I hope I'm pulling up to the dunes with a shotgun."

He watched the folds of Sam's mouth tick up a little, deepening the dimples that made him seem still so young to Dean. Sam made a quick jerk of his head toward the dashboard. "Think she'll make the return journey?"

"The Impala? Hell yeah. She'll still be kicking ass and taking names in forty more years."

Sam shook his head, the mental picture seemingly as absurd in his brother's mind as it was his, but it had softened the creases of worry around Sam's eyes. He was flipping back through his notes and looked to be chewing over something he wanted to share. Dean waited, still wondering how they were going to kill something that had taken a consecrated slug to the skull and was still around forty years later to show off the scar.

"Uh, I wanted to try something," Sam started.

_Try something_ didn't exactly invoke a heaping amount of confidence for the outlook of this hunt. There were a few times Sam had 'tried' things, that might have worked, that left Dean wondering if his brother liked using him to test out theories. A certain possessed truck that almost gunned him down in Missouri came to mind.

_Evil spirits cross over hallowed ground; sometimes they're destroyed…so…I figured…maybe…that would get rid of it._

_Maybe? Maybe?! What if you were __**wrong**__?_

_Huh? Honestly…that thought hadn't occurred to me._

Dean could have strangled his brother right then and there. With all the love he possessed of course.

"Let's hear it," Dean replied, bracing himself.

"Jake and Ben used consecrated rounds, which worked to weaken it, but were not enough to kill it. Was looking through the lore before we left, and there was one story about a Jackal trickster defeating it with tobacco."

_Tobacco?_ _Really?_ That was new. Dean huffed, amused by the suggestion. "Won't find that on the Surgeon General's report." Dean remarked, grinning. "What do you know? Smoking _does_ kill."

"Especially creatures of KhoiKhoi lore that have their eyes in their feet."

"Can't believe that thing crawled out of an art museum in the sixties. See that—that is why I don't go to places like that. There's no telling who touched what, what spirit or demon or whatever is attached to all that old world crap. Venkman 101 teaches you that." Dean shuddered again at the reminder of the placement of the eyes. "In its feet, had to be in its feet…that's wrong on _so _many levels."

"You really have a kink about feet, don't you, Dean?" Sam snorted.

"They're feet, dude! Surprised the thing's survived as long as it has…"

"It's had time to adapt, learn how to contort its limbs." Sam shivered a little himself.

Dean rolled his neck, trying to lengthen out the muscles there, to ease a little of the pain running rampant along his back and shoulders. He wasn't going to let this slow him down, and if Sam knew how limited he was right now…Last thing he wanted was for his brother to go after this thing alone.

"I'm gonna assume you already tipped the bullets, filled the shells." Dean directed Sam's attention as he felt his brother's eyes on him again.

"How long have you known me?" Sam intoned.

Dean smiled. That was all he needed to hear. "Good."

* * *

Dean was humming.

It had been _Dead Man's Curve_ earlier, which had gained him a punch in the arm from Sam. The sense of déjà vu was creepy enough without his brother humming the same song Jake had. He said he hadn't even realized he was doing it, which gave Sam even more reason to doubt this was a good idea.

Tonight. They only had tonight.

Sam cast his eyes upward to the stars dotting the ink of the night sky, his internal dialog with the universe sarcastic and biting regarding its sense of humor. The moon was full, illuminating the white sands of the beach enough for them to navigate at the water's edge. They'd been walking the seemingly endless dunes for an hour, the water's lull and pull as it slid up against the shore hypnotic, stealing Sam's strength. He wanted to sit down, to fall into the soft bed of sand gripping to his ankles.

Dean was humming _When the Levee Breaks _now, Zeppelin more was like his brother, but no less helpful to keep back the reminder of what had happened to Jake along these same sands. Sam preferred it to the draw of the lake, however, Dean's breathy rhythm and voice keeping him focused.

Sam had missed it. Missed his brother. Missed his quirks, his smart mouth, his voice, his music, and his stubbornness—to a degree. Sam cast a look back at the two sets of footprints in the sand, in step, side by side, the way they were supposed to be.

Sam knew Dean needed the sound as well to combat the white noise around them, something to keep step to despite his weariness. His pace had slowed considerably since they'd started out. The tremor along Dean's jaw, the sweat sliding along his hairline, the wounded recoil of his step getting more profound, the wince of pain every time he put more weight on it, were all things Sam saw, noticed, took in and wondered who Dean thought he was fooling.

Sam was the one who should go alone, even if he didn't want to, and here Dean had been asking him to stay behind.

Sam had slowed his own pace, keeping shoulder to shoulder with his brother until he knew he had to make Dean rest. Knowing Dean would never stop of his own free will, Sam stopped first, forcing Dean to halt. Relief slid behind a mask of concern on Dean's face as he looked back at him.

"You all right?" Dean asked

_I'm fine, Dean. You're not._

Okay, so maybe he wasn't fine. Unless _fine_ stood for freaked out, insecure, neurotic, and emotional. 'Cause then, yeah. Sam was fine.

"Starting to wonder if we should head back…Maybe we missed something." Sam began, just as his eyes fell upon a dark shape protruding from the shell white sands, standing out against the dune face. He nudged Dean and nodded toward the derelict shack. "You think?"

Dean ticked up a shoulder. "Only one way to find out."

The door practically fell apart in Sam's hand as he drew it back through the sand, the rotten boards groaning in adamant protest. Dean held the shotgun at the ready as Sam opened the door, preparing for whatever was inside to come at them. The light attached to the barrel fell across the bowels of the small fishing shack, the beam sliding over crates and nets, neglected storage and other remnants of furniture.

Sam moved in beside Dean, his own flashlight passing along the walls and the corners. There were a few lamps Sam lit as they went, trying to give them more light. He looked up into the netting hanging from the ceiling where it was crudely hooked. There was nothing along the beams or crouching behind the coils of rope.

Sam's could feel something inside of him twitching, recoiling, pulling taut in warning. It was here. Even if they couldn't see it.

"The floor's gone," Dean noted.

Sam turned his flashlight downward onto where he'd expect half rotted and moss-covered floorboards, but sand had spilled in from the dune behind, coating the ground. Sam followed the line of crates to the back, stopping when the beam came to rest on a large hole, dug into the back wall. The sand was soaked red around the circumference, and as he got closer he could see claw marks in the sand, what looked like part of a forearm, bloody and exposed muscle, and three fingers still attached by strings of sinew partially buried in the sand.

The smell didn't reached him until he knelt beside the hole, gagging almost instantly at the stench curling up from the dark.

"Oh, god…" Sam breathed. It was permeating his nostrils. He'd been unable to smell anything for days now, but he was sure this would be the only thing he'd be smelling for a while.

Dean was beside him, but didn't kneel—couldn't. He was trying to see the back of the tunnel, barrel of the shotgun aimed right at the mouth.

"So, good chance it's in there," Dean observed.

"That or a land shark," Sam muttered.

"Can't get a good look at how far back it goes…" Dean breathed, trying to put more weight on his good leg unsuccessfully, then smirked. "After you."

Was he kidding?!

"Age before beauty," Sam smiled flatly.

Dean huffed, wiping at the sweat along his brow with the back of his hand. "You just want me to get my face chewed off first so you'll be the good looking one."

A laugh was stunted in his throat as Sam caught the shadows along the wall before him, the dark shape that untwisted from the rafters and landed with a dull thud on the sand behind them. Sam heard the wet rasp of the thing's breath as it opened its mouth, the pop and snap of its refolding contortion of limbs. Sam shot his eyes over to Dean, keeping still, watching every muscle in his brother's body coil as cold realization slid along their spines.

"Dean…"

"Well, _hell_," Dean muttered, right before he turned and fired at the creature that was lunging right for them.

It collapsed in mid-leap, screaming as it held to its gut. It looked too much like a man, until Sam caught its eyeless face, and it arched its back, bringing its feet up and over its shoulders, one disgusting eye in the instep rolling drunkenly within its socket. It disappeared, the sand parting where its body had been, exploding up as it burrowed away from them.

Dean had hesitated on the second shot, the shell wasted against the flurry before all was still again.

"Did you see that thing? Did you see that _butt fugly_ thing?" his brother was asking as he reloaded, but Sam didn't answer.

He was following the ground with his eyes, knowing from 'experience'—Ben's experience—that it would be back. They'd both seen it before, but the previous encounter had done nothing to lessen the shock.

_Holy shit…_

The ground dipped suddenly right before them and Sam flailed back, Dean's arm shooting out against his chest, knocking him away from the sinkhole and back against the wall. He'd fired again into mound forming before them, the thing's scream erupting again, shredding Sam's ears. It wasn't stopping its forward surge.

"Get off the ground!" Sam shouted, jumping up and grabbing hold of the netting.

He hooked one foot through, the other balancing on a wooden bureau. Dean had done the same, tossing the shotgun up onto a window ledge and pulled up with both arms. But wasn't able to get his legs solidly planted on anything above the sand. His injured leg rested on a stack of crates that shook as the creature slammed into it repeatedly, trying to break the bottom apart. Sam watched Dean wince as every jarring motion bounded back through his wound.

If the crates fell away…

"_Sonuvabitch_," Dean growled. "What, is it humping the damn thing?"

Sam hooked his elbow around the coarse ropes, shirking the rifle from his shoulder and letting it fall to the ground. The creature stopped, having felt something fall and started back toward where Sam was hanging. Sam waited as it sniffed the rifle and then licked the metal, its long tongue sliding up and down the barrel, coating it in saliva before it got a taste of tobacco residue and reared back, disappearing once again beneath the sand's surface.

"Dean…" Sam grunted, repositioning himself so he could plant both feet onto the bureau and let himself down. "Hold on, all right? I'm gonna try to…"

There was a low groaning sound building in the structure around them and Sam's eyes shot up to the beams holding their weight. The wood splintered above where Dean was, the beam starting to buckle. Sam watched Dean's eyes go wide before the whole beam collapsed, the hooks breaking loose, and his brother hit the ground in a disjointed heap of limbs and rope, broken wood, and metal.

"Dean!"

Dean had curled in on himself, pushing the ropes and debris away, groaning before drawing his knee up into his chest, holding to his leg. Sam heard the gasp of pain, practically felt it as he watched Dean's eyes press shut tight enough to push out tears.

"Shit…" he heard his brother breathe.

Dean rolled onto his belly, reaching for the rifle that was just within his grasp.

"Don't move! Don't move, Dean!"

When this thing couldn't see, it felt out movement through the sand. Dean stopped, fingertips at the rifle strap, body taut, the tremors in his fingers betraying his ability to mask the difficulty of that request. Sam could hear his own blood pounding against his skull, eyes raptly bound to his brother's form. It was quiet, grinding away at Sam's already frayed nerves, and nothing was shifting beneath the sand.

"Sam…"

Dean's gaze was fastened to the shadows before him, and it was then Sam could hear the throaty rasp and gurgle of breath in the creature's throat as it practically slithered into view. Dean threw himself forward, tearing the rifle back toward him. The aigamuxa felt Dean move, and shot out its disgusting length of tongue toward him.

Sam slammed his back against the wall, feet planted at the edge of the bureau, and toppled it onto the freak beneath him. The aigamuxa screamed, the thud of heavy wood against flesh and bone cracked through Sam's ears with great satisfaction. Jumping down onto the back of the bureau, Sam didn't wait to see if it was coming back. He was down beside Dean, removing the rest of the net threatening to entangle him.

"Can we kill the _damn_ graboid already?" Dean wheezed.

"Come on, Dean," Sam breathed, hooking an arm under his brother's, guiding him to his feet.

Dean's cry, the buckle of his leg, the way he started to fall; Sam thought he'd pushed himself too far, that the wound couldn't take any more abuse, the leg wouldn't sustain his weight. But when Dean was ripped out of the arm lock they had, Sam twisted around as fast as he could, realization stabbing through him with fresh fear and panic, fingers clawing at Dean's forearm, locking around his wrist as they were pulled to the ground.

The thing had its tongue wrapped around Dean's calf, a dark stain—Dean's blood—

spreading along his pant leg as it wrenched and twisted the skin apart beneath his jeans. Sam took hold of Dean's arm with his other hand and tried to pull him back, wincing as Dean swore, the gasp shuddered and pained, his body shaking, stretched between the two of them. Sam was losing his grip…

_No. Come on, Dean. Hold on!_

The aigamuxa, tiring of the game of tug and war, disappeared, the sands around it and Dean falling away, swallowing Dean's legs.

"Shit…_Shit!"_ Dean ground out, face contorting in pain as he slid deeper into the ground. His own vice grip on Sam's arm was starting to slide along sweat-slick sand.

"Dean! No, no, no."

"Knife!"

"What?" Sam blinked. "I can't let go!"

Dean growled as he was pulled further down, the sand now gathered around his waist. "_KNIFE_!"

"No!"

"Now, Sam!"

Sam sacrificed one hand, taking the combat knife from his boot, and gave it to his brother, Dean's fingers closing around the hilt just before there was a forceful jerk and Dean was ripped from his sight.

"_Dean!_"

Sam launched himself at the spot where Dean had been not seconds before, digging through the sand, shoveling handfuls aside, winded before he'd begun to even make a dent, fingers shredded.

_No. NonononoNO! _

"You can't have him, you son of a bitch! Give him back!"

Sam's bloody fingers returned with nothing, the sand sliding back into the recess he'd just cleared away, causing him to growl out his frustration, tears blurring his eyes. He could blow up their damn television set, but he couldn't defeat sand. The sand caved downward, and Sam startled back, hand going for the rifle behind him.

He'd _kill_ it for taking Dean. He'd _tear it _apart!

When Dean's hand burst from the ground, Sam grabbed hold, the aigamuxa forgotten as his brother's fingers tightened around his, desperate. Sam pulled, scrambling away from the sinkhole, digging his heels in to get leverage. Dean surfaced, too eager for air, choking on the sand that he inhaled as Sam grabbed his jacket and hauled him the rest of the way out of the ground.

Dean groaned as Sam dragged him up onto the bureau, turning him on his side so he could catch his breath, brushing the sand from his brother's face.

"Dean?"

"Lost…the knife…" he gasped.

_Who cares about the knife, Dean?!_

"It…lost an eye…"

Sam huffed his amazement at his brother's luck. His eyes were drawn to Dean's leg, to the blood-saturated cloth.

"God…Dean…"

Dean looked like he was about to give Sam the same bullshit about how it was fine when the bureau shifted, the ground rising up beneath it.

"This thing is _really_ starting to piss me off," Dean seethed, voice rough, raw.

Sam hauled up the rifle and Dean rolled onto his back, trying to take deep, controlled breaths.

"Damn thing stays beneath the surface, I can't get a shot…" Sam said.

"Well then… this is going to suck."

"What?" Sam asked as Dean rolled back onto his side.

"Don't cash that rain check, Sammy." Dean grunted, sitting up.

"Wait. What? Why?!"

Dean pushed up from the bureau before Sam could grab him, limping forward into the closest thing to a run he could manage. The slow drag of his injured leg almost caused him to get tangled up on his own feet, and Sam's breath caught as his leg bowed twice, threatening to take him down again.

_Dean! You stupid—_

The aigamuxa surfaced, and Sam took aim, heart hammering a bruised percussion in his chest. He could hit it or he could hit Dean, the stupid ass. He could miss both and watch the creature tear apart his brother. Whatever he ended up doing, he knew he only had the breadth of the compression of the trigger and the only certainty was death if he hesitated.

The creature leapt for Dean and Sam took the shot, the bullet entering the base of the skull just before it slammed into Dean, taking them both down. Sam lowered the rifle; unable to believe he'd been that accurate, any awe replaced with lung-shriveling fear as both Dean and the aigamuxa lay still, unmoving.

"Dean!" Sam pushed into a sprint getting to his brother's side just the aigamuxa was shoved away into an awkward heap. He helped Dean get the rest of it off of him, both staring at the hole where its face was supposed to be, Dean shuddering in Sam's hold.

"Damn…" Dean swallowed and looked up at Sam. It had been close. Too close. And Sam wanted to kill Dean for the stunt.

"Dean…what the _hell _was that?!

The aigamuxa's remaining eye rolled up into the foot as the last of its life poured from its skull, and Dean collapse back against Sam in exhaustion.

"I figured…maybe…that would get rid of it," Dean coughed.

"Maybe? Maybe?! What if you were _wrong_? What if—"

"Huh?" Dean grinned tiredly. "Honestly…that thought hadn't occurred to me."

* * *

Dean embraced the winds off the lake water, closing his eyes as they brushed over the fever in his cheeks, cooling the sweat along his brow. There was a storm coming in, he could smell sweet tang of the rain, and every few minutes he could see the flicker of light race along the clouds out over the water, the low rumble of thunder coming into shore on the back of the waves.

The aigamuxa's remains had burned to ash long ago, the driftwood pyre providing some warmth against the cold. Sam was lying beside Dean, shoulder propped up against a log, gaze lost to some middle distance. Dean watched him shiver, wiping his nose on the back of his hoodie sleeve, before drawing his knees back into his chest.

"Wish we had some beer and marshmallows," Dean commented, shifting to find a comfortable patch of sand for his leg. The makeshift flannel bandage was keeping the gash closed; the wound tied it off as best as he could hope for now. He'd have to clean it again, sew it back up…

"Wish I had a pillow…" Sam sighed, turning fever-fatigued eyes Dean's way. "You okay, Dean?"

He nodded taking a deep breath. "Bagged ourselves an aigamuxa...how many other hunters can put that on their resume." Sam's look reminded him that wasn't what he was talking about. "Just need some patching up…nothing serious." He shook his head, brushing away the sand still stuck in his hair. "I'm gonna be pulling sand from places I'd rather not think about for weeks…"

"You don't look so good," Sam noted, gaze returning to the fire.

He wasn't about to admit it. He felt it though. It was too hot next to the fire, but he was starting to get cold where he was sitting. The dull ache in his leg had become a shooting pain, and he felt every muscle when he moved.

"Neither do you, Sam. Come on, we'll get you back." They needed to get out of there before the storm blew in anyway, that or they were going to need to take shelter.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you think they'll try something like Cutter's Landing again?"

It always returned to that. But Dean couldn't blame Sam. It had shaken them both up a little more than either of them were ready to confess. It was the reason Dean had started running in the first place.

Dean shrugged, a bead of sweat falling from his jaw onto his hands. He destroyed the rest with a swipe of his sleeve. "If they try anything else to get to you, they're going to have to get through me. Not worried though…"

"Why's that?" Sam asked, absently.

"I get the feeling I'm the guy they sent to Hell because I was a pain in the ass. They needed me out of their hair," Dean half-joked. "Didn't exactly work out the way they planned."

He watched Sam curl up tighter, eyes cast down into the sand he was nudging with his toe.

_Did I say something wrong?_

It was hard to read Sam anymore. He was shutting him out, and Dean was continually striking out. Sam would ask him these questions, which came from God knew where, and Dean felt like if he didn't have the right answer, Sam took one step back.

Eyes back to the fire, Dean watched the flames snap and twist. They curled around one another, drawing him in, whispering to him. They grew hotter, the whispers intensifying, and suddenly it felt like the fire was inside of him, the voices in his head.

_Dean._

"Dean?"

Dean jerked back a little, pressing his fingers against his eyes until the heat and light burned there faded to black.

"Where did you go?" Sam asked.

"I've been right here, dude…"

_What the hell was that?_

Sam shook his head, concern laced through the creases in his brow. "You spaced on me, man. Where did you go?"

Dean ticked up a shoulder. "Tired. And so are you. We've got a lot of beach to cover, so how about we get going?"

Getting to his feet was a feat, and staying on them even more of one. He hadn't taken more than a few steps toward their gear when he felt his blood flash hot through his veins. The ground tipped violently, all strength leaving his legs like paper, and they folded just as easily. All sound grayed out to a single monotone, the whine in his ears growing while his vision tunneled to black.

When the fire in his blood went cold, returning his sight, though blurred and shaky, he found he was on his back, head in Sam's lap, panic written in his brother's eyes. A few drops of rain landed on his face, and he flinched at how cold they felt as they slid along his forehead and nose, stuck to his lashes.

"Who moved the ground?" he croaked.

"Dean…you're not okay." Sam's voice was begging the opposite.

No. No he wasn't. But he'd suffered worse. He tried to sit up, but Sam had pushed him back down, ordering him not to move. For a moment he was unaware of his surroundings, head clouded, dead to the rain pelting his flesh, to the soft bed of sand beneath him, to the way his skin shivered to keep him warm. At the back oh his mind he was aware of Sam unwrapping the wound, of what he would find there, the red, angry flesh, the puckering of infection, the product of his reasoning that it would get better, that they couldn't go to a hospital, that he could wait through it healing on its own…just keep it clean, bandaged, tight…

Take care of Sam. Sam was sick. Sam needed him to be there…

Because he wasn't before.

_I wasn't going to wake up…_

"You _stubborn_ asshole!" Sam cried, his voice like a gunshot through Dean's numbing senses. Sam was by his side now, taking hold of his shirt, fisting his hands in the fabric as they shook. "You're not…you're not _invincible,_ Dean! You think because you're back from the dead you can just…"

"Sam…"

"We don't even know _how_ you came back, what could happen if you…if you…"

Dean took hold of Sam's shoulder, dizzy, needing to steady himself as the world tilted again around distressed eyes and wounded words. "Sammy…"

"No! Don't do this to me again. Don't go get yourself killed because of me. Don't put me _first_! Give a shit about yourself, Dean. They _killed_ you to get _to me_!"

Dean blinked back surprise, lashes collecting more rain as it fell harder against them, bringing back sensation to his heated flesh.

Dean had made the deal. He'd been the one to choose his life for Sam's. Where in that equation did Sam see it had been planned out? That the demons had wanted his death to get to Sam?

"How do you—?" He managed, denying it even as he started to ask.

_No. It was __**my**__ choice. Mine, Sam._

"I just…I just _know_. All right. I just…" He dropped his head, hands slacking. "No. You died and…" The ferocity leeched from Sam's voice, leaving it winded and meek. "They got exactly what they wanted…"

There was a brokenness there, a burden of guilt that Dean never wanted Sam to carry. It wasn't his to carry…

"I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry…"

"Promise me you'll stop this…" Sam begged, and Dean couldn't tell anymore if it was rain or tears dropping from Sam's chin onto his face.

Dean took hold of his brother's shirt, making him meet his gaze. "I'm sorry."

Because he hadn't been there. Because he'd made this worse. Because he was a stubborn ass and he knew it. Because when it came to Sam and putting anything before him…

He couldn't make that promise.


	7. Chapter 7

C&W—Ch. 7

Sam could feel the heat of Dean's fever as his brother's humid breath slid over his neck. Sam had Dean propped up against him, his face resting against the crook of Sam's neck so he could get to the crudely patched wounds on Dean's back. There had been more to Dean's fall then he'd shared, and Sam was working on repairing what he'd been unaware was broken through tear-blurred eyes.

Sam wanted to shake Dean, to scream, to tell him to go screw himself for being an idiot. How freaking hard would it have been for him to let Sam help?

Exhausted from hauling Dean back to the Impala, tiring fast from his own sickness, Sam was nearing the edge of his limits. It had taken every ounce of strength he had to carry his brother's half-conscious weight through the dunes, and now, back at their motel, he was clawing for the reserves of energy he needed to take care of his brother. He'd peeled the fever-warmed, rain-soaked clothes from Dean's skin, discovering other cuts and the evidence of neglect in his poorly healed scars. He'd choked down a sob then, using his anger to focus on what needed to be done.

Dean's leg took priority, and all Sam had to offer Dean was a crude mixture of herbs, some ethyl alcohol and what was left of the antiseptic.

He took every precaution he could manage concerning exposing Dean to the illness running rampant in his own body, but he was racing the limitations on his strength, trying to get his brother patched up before he collapsed himself, before he became useless.

Sam laid Dean back down, every tremor that shook through his brother's skin felt as Dean was fighting back the pain and heat with as much ferocity as he'd taken on the Aigamuxa. Sam watched the muscles along his jaw bounce in defiance, his back arch as the freshly dressed wounds touched down before he could get settled.

Destroying the moisture gathered at the edge of his lashes with the back of his hand, Sam tried to rally his thoughts, knowing he needed to get some cool towels to bring down Dean's fever, but he couldn't get himself to move from his brother's side.

_No! Don't do this to me again. Don't go get yourself killed because of me. Don't put me __**first**__! Give a shit about yourself, Dean. They __**killed**__ you to get __**to me**__!_

_Dean…_

"Why?" Sam's thoughts manifested from his lips, parting the silence. "Why, Dean?"

"Because I left you alone…Because I wasn't here." Dean answered weakly, eyes cracking open to slits. "Because you weren't going to wake up…I knew…before you told me. I knew and I wasn't here and I'm sorry, Sam."

What was he saying? Dean was trying to make up for the time he'd been gone…Sam swallowed against the barb suddenly lodged in his throat. "What?"

"Because you can see my scars…Because you shouldn't have to worry about me anymore..." Dean said, eyes closing again, another tremor of pain temporarily seizing anymore breath behind his teeth as he clenched his jaw.

Sam went to get some painkillers, digging through the bag, desperate. All the bottles he found were empty. Dean had gone through them. When he was hiding from him? When he was pretending everything was fine? Sam's fist tightened around the plastic container, shaking.

_Because you can see my scars…_

"Dammit!" Sam growled, throwing an empty pill bottle against the wall.

"Sam…"

"Dean…I…" There was nothing he could give him for the pain.

"Read the journal," Dean rasped. "I need to rest, right? Can't like this…"

"Dean, no. I have to watch you…" Sam returned. "No. I can't."

It was like Dean didn't even hear him. "Maybe pick an entry… where they investigate a strip club… or a casino or something…"

Sam reluctantly took up the journal, his own strength leaving him quickly, as he sunk down onto his own bed. "Dean…no…"

"Sam, please."

With that plea Sam couldn't deny Dean's request. Not when his brother was asking to be someone else right now. Not when Dean was asking to be far away from this room, from a body betrayed by fever and pain.

"I'll try, man…"Sam sighed.

_But I'm not staying there…I'm not leaving you alone…_

That was when Sam's eyes fell across a name and his breath caught in his throat.

_No way…_

"I…I think I found an entry, Dean."

"Strippers?" Dean exhaled, then sucked in a breath, face twisting with a sudden rush of pain when he moved his leg. It left him gasping, and Sam closed his eyes. He had to keep telling himself this was to help Dean stay away from the pain, that this was to get his brother to rest.

_I left you alone. I'm sorry, Sammy._

Sam pressed his eyes closed even tighter against the tears and swallowed, opening them to the blurred words of the page. He blinked to clear his vision, taking a deep breath.

"No, but it'll be okay, Dean," Sam replied, shaking a little, unsure of this decision.

_We'll be okay. You'll be okay._

**Wolf Lake, Michigan, June 2, 1973**

Jake's forehead connected with the bar with a loud, resounding thunk. He hit it a few more times in cadence with the voice coming from the radio behind the bar.

"Your boys of summer ain't startin' out so good this season." A voice chuckled at him from the other side of the bar. Jake held up one finger and moaned.

_Final score, Kansas City Royals five, Cleveland Indians one_.

"Sonof…" The flat of Jake's hand landed on the aged, polished wood next to his forehead creating a louder thunk than his forehead did, "…a_bitch_!"

"Here. You might as well have this since you're gonna have a heckuva headache in a bit anyway."

Turning his head to the side and cracking one eye open, Jake was met with the sight of a glass of cold beer and a shot of whiskey. Sighing he sat up, took the beer and let his eyes wander around the room. That's when he realized the place was dead silent and everyone was staring at him. At a table near the center of the roadhouse, Ben was sitting with Rufus. His head was ducked down, bangs dripping in eyes that slid in Jake's direction.

Ben was trying hard not to laugh by biting down on the slow smile spreading over his face.

"They'll do better tomorrow." Jake straightened and announced to the room in general, feeling silly and lame. He downed his shot and slugged down half his beer.

Shaking his head, Ben shifted in his chair to get a better look around the room at everyone staring at his brother. He scrubbed his fingers over the back of his head and turned back to whatever he and Rufus were so interested in discussing. Both he and Ben had rounded past forty but it never ceased to amaze Jake how Ben could still look like an excited kid when something caught his interest. Ben was far from a kid anymore, but Jake supposed he'd never stop being Jake's kid.

"Damn things are taking people, and you're worried about a damn baseball game." Some scruffy looking kid in the corner mumbled in a stage whisper, pushed away from his table and lurched on unsteady legs to the door. "Fill them up and make them do things they wouldn't do. Make them so dark their eyes are black as oil."

Ben's head jerked up, and he turned far enough to meet Jake's eyes. Head dropping so his chin hit his chest, Jake shoved away from the bar stool. Couldn't he simply mourn the loss of his favorite baseball team in peace? Apparently not. No. Hell no even. No rest for demon hunters.

Or guys who thought every kid with a kicked-too-often look was his responsibility. As if he needed another little brother and another mouth to feed.

Catching up to the guy just outside the door wasn't an issue. He was stumbling sideways more than he was forward. "Hey…kid…buddy…fella…you need some help there?"

When the man turned around Jake got a look at the baseball cap he wore. _Kansas City Royals_. His heart sank along with his shoulders. Dull eyes looked at him. The guy had scraggly blondish hair and an unkempt beard. Just as Jake's hand was about to land on the kid's shoulder, he also discovered this guy probably was wearing the same clothes he wore a month ago and hadn't had a shower in about as long.

"Whacha wan' old man?" The guy slurred and turned too fast nearly knocking himself down.

Wrinkling his nose, "I thought—" Jake jumped sideways and narrowly avoided having the stream of urine fountaining out of the kid hit his boots. Smirking and rubbing his chin with two fingers, Jake muttered, "Damn good reflexes for an _old man_."

"Wha'e'r. You some cr'p that followed me out 'ere for a piece of ma' ass?" Tucking himself back in, the kid let loose a string of obscenities Jake was sure some of which the guy invented when his zipper snagged. "Cause if yer are, I got a wi—" His face crumpled and he covered his face with his hands. "Had a wife." Sob. "A beautiful wife." Sob, hiccup. "She was my whole world, everything and anything important or good. Ya understand how that feels?"

Ben's dimples and hair forever needing a cut popped to the forefront of Jake's mind. "Yes." Jake realized the man's ramblings and the way he was staggering away was taking him closer to the river between the roadhouse and the road. There was a bridge, but the rail was low and the whole thing was unsteady. The water wasn't deep, but there was a good twelve foot drop, enough to cause serious injury or death if one hit bottom the right way. Holding out one arm, Jake took a step toward the kid, but not close enough to grab him. "Come on back inside. Let me get you some dinner and you can tell me about your wife." Jake's chest squeezed tight, he had a feeling he knew the story before it was even told to him.

"Don' 'ave time. They're all 'rnd us. Gotta get 'em."

"Yeah, yeah, you and the White House plumbers, kid. But never on an empty stomach." Jake took two more steps, "You gotta name?"

The guy grunted something at him and stumbled farther back, spun on his heels fast enough he got his legs twisted together and nearly landed on his ass. Just when Jake was almost close enough to put hands on him and stop from going any further, the kid jerked out of reach and zigzagged onto the bridge.

And right over the rail.

Jake was right behind him. "Oh shit, crap, no." Lunging after him, Jake's boots hit the bridge with a hollow sound that surrounded him. Wiggling between the rail and the bridge, he squinted into the dimming light. The thought hit him suddenly that there'd been no splash. As if on cue, the kid started squawking and inventing yet more cuss words. "Wow, that's pretty impressive." He couldn't help chuckling, the guy had done a header over the railing and gotten caught on something under the bridge. Now he was dangling, legs kicking, arms jerking, mouth running.

Actually it was pretty funny. Except for the fact that his jacket was starting to rip and the guy would still end up in the river.

Fingers curling into the fabric of the man's jacket, Jake tugged. Then he groaned. Then he groaned and tugged. This scrawny kid was heavier than he looked. Or Jake was older than he felt. Deciding it was the former, not the latter (absolutely no way was it _ever_ the latter) Jake heaved the upper part of his body up and off the bridge.

For about a second.

The kid's weight brought him crashing back down with an even louder thud than his head connecting with the bar earlier. His ribs did a sickening sort of squishy thing in his chest for a few seconds while he gasped for air. Tightening his hold, Jake refused to let go even when he heard footsteps coming up behind him.

"Need a hand?"

Jake turned his head far enough to see Ben standing there, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows vanished under his bangs and the right half of his mouth turned up. "Naw, I'm good. This is fun." He sighed, "But if you're bored…"

"So I see." Ben knelt down, rested his wrists on his knees so his hands dangled between them and leaned far enough he could see over the railing. "New fishing technique?" He reached passed Jake and grabbed one of the guy's arms.

"Didn't work out like I planned."

"Ya think?" came the voice from below.

Jake eased onto his knees, hauling his catch along with him. "Benjamin!"

"Yeah, yeah…" Ben barked a laugh and pulled when Jake lifted up. Together they managed to get the kid onto the bridge. Standing up and taking the guy with him, Ben brushed him off and moved him away from the rail. "You okay?"

"No, I'm not okay. I'll never be _okay_ again!" He yanked out of Ben's grip and staggered back a step then straightened his shoulders and glared. Ben blinked back placidly. "What are you some sort of hero who wanders around saving people?"

Ben shook his head and smiled. "Nope, that's him," he waved at Jake who was using the railing to pull himself upright. "I'm the plucky comic relief who follows him around for the sparkling entertainment of watching him catch guys like you."

"Do you…have a…_name_?" Jake let go of the railing and turned to face the kid. "And quit being so obnoxious or I'll shove you back over."

"No he won't." Ben put an arm around the kid's shoulders and steered him off the bridge. Jake followed behind, grumbling threats.

"Bobby." The kid announced.

In tandem, Jake and Ben waved one hand in the air in a _keep going _motion.

"Singer."

"Okay then, Bobby Singer, you need to tell us what happened and why you think the world is being overrun by something black taking over people." Jake stopped next to their car and leaned against it.

"No one believes me."

"Really?" Jake wanted to take this Bobby kid and shake him until his brains rattled back into place. "Huh, never could guess why. Oh, wait, maybe it's because you're drunk, you stink, you make no sense and did I mention drunk?"

"Jake." Ben's soft voice cut in and cooled Jake down instantly. "Why don't we take you where you can get cleaned up, we'll get something to eat, and you can tell us because we'll believe you."

When Ben reached for the door handle of the car, Jake's hand shot out, grabbing him. "Uh, no, not getting in the car like _that_."

Ben shrugged and grabbed Bobby by his collar hauling him to the far side of the roadhouse.

"Hey! What are you—where are you—you some kind of freak?" Bobby's feet suddenly stopped tripping over themselves and he got it together enough to take a swing at Ben, connecting with his jaw.

"Ow! Hey!" Ben let go of the guy and stumbled back a step, rubbing at his face.

Jake had Bobby in a choke hold, one arm twisted behind his back, and shoved face first into the building before Bobby got a second breath out. "No, that's definitely a _no_." Turning his head far enough to catch sight of Ben, "You okay?"

"Yeah." Ben mumbled and took the hose from the holding bracket and unwound it. Reaching to the faucet, he gave it a hearty crank.

Bobby invented even more obscenities when Ben turned the hose on him.

Jake let go of him and stepped away. "Eh, now you more smell like wet stink, but the first layer is off. _Now_ you can get into my car."

"Who _are_ you?"

"Jake Colt, this is my brother, Ben."

Bobby looked from Jake's stern face to Ben's lopsided grin and shook his head. "Why should I go anywhere with you or even trust you two?"

"Because we believe you." Jake turned and headed back to the car stopping after two steps he spun around to face Bobby again. "Oh, and for the record, if you think we're saying this to get you to our room or some shit, dude, _look_ at yourself, man. You're a mess, you're a wreck and so far out of our league it's not funny. We could do a lot better and we don't take in strays. Now do you want help or not?"

Bobby took off his _Royals_ cap, shook the water out of it and wiped more out of his eyes. Nodding sullenly he traipsed after them to the car. "This is a cool, sweet ass car."

"Yeah, it is." Jake grinned and he slid behind the wheel, tossing a look over his shoulder at Bobby, "Try not to pee in it."

* * *

Ben knew his brother had a great sense of humor, which in and of itself was amazing, considering what their lives had become. In fact, Ben thought most of Jake was amazing. But this? This was entertainment beyond entertainment. He settled in one of the chairs near the table, leaned back, and popped open a bottle of _Coke_ with which to watch the show.

"First of all, I like _girls_." Rummaging through one of his bags, Jake pulled out a shirt and jeans, "Here this should fit you well enough. Secondly if you don't get your ass into that shower in the next three seconds, I'm taking you back to the bridge, tossing you off, and _shooting_ you!"

Bobby glared at Jake then turned to Ben who held his hands up in mock defense and shrugged. Taking the offered clothes, Bobby stomped off to the bathroom, huffing and grouching. When Jake's glare turned on him, Ben dropped his gaze to the floor and the overgrowth of green and gold, wondering if the maid vacuumed it or mowed it. He bit down on his lip—hard—to keep from laughing outright. It was building in his chest, and he finally had to give into it or explode. "You gonna keep him?"

Someone who didn't know Jake very well might, at this moment, think he was considering murdering his little brother. Fortunately, Ben knew better. He smiled around the bottle as he took another swig of _Coke_.

"No I'm not going to keep him and neither are you. We're cleaning him up, feeding him, and sending him home."

"I don't think he wants to go home, Jake."

His reply was simply a snort and Jake turning away to clean and check the load on their guns. Ben knew the issue, or part of it anyway. Jake didn't like other hunters and steered clear of them. They'd learned over the years that the majority found their way to hunting for some vendetta or revenge, something killed someone they loved. Ben was fine with that since for the most part the others they'd met were a rough, unscrupulous lot, and Ben's reaction to them ran the gamut from disgust to out and out fear.

This guy was different or at least Ben thought so. Yes, something had killed someone he loved, but this guy seemed to have a grounding quality. They'd met very few old hunters, but Ben was willing to bet this guy might become one.

"He's not going to stop just because you tell him to." Ben pointed out.

Jake looked downright miserable and nodded, "I know. Maybe I should tell him to go ahead and jump in with both feet and that might work."

Ben shook his head.

The shower cut off and Bobby ambled out, "Cleveland Indians shirt, huh." He straightened the shirt and tucked it into his jeans.

"Gotta problem with them?" Jake asked giving the shotgun in his hand a hearty pump. Ben rubbed his eyes with two fingers, Jake took his sports seriously.

"Uh, no…guess not." Bobby mumbled.

Time for a safer subject, Ben decided. "Where do you live?"

"South Dakota."

"We're in Michigan." The words popped out of Ben's mouth before he could stop them.

Scratching his forearm, Bobby shrugged, "I took a drive."

"So," Jake took a chair, swung it around and straddled it, "Tell us what happened to your wife."

"You guys cops?"

Ben's gaze shifted to Jake who sat there stony-faced and barely breathing. He sighed and leaned forward resting his elbows on his knees, "I'm not. No."

Bobby nodded opened his mouth, narrowed his eyes, shut his mouth and shot a look at Jake while sinking slowly onto the end of one of the beds.

Jake suddenly looked old and tired, he cleared his throat and looked at the ugly needing-a-mow carpeting for a few seconds before pulling his gaze back up and meeting Bobby's eyes. "I was a detective with the Cleveland P.D. a long time ago."

"I know this sounds crazy, but she was already dead when I hit her." Bobby looked from one to the other.

Nodding, Jake softened his voice, "I know. I can't arrest anyone and I'm not turning you in. You didn't do anything wrong. I know that. We know that and we believe you."

Pulling one hand over his mouth, Bobby nodded again. He sat quietly for another few minutes as if drawing some inner energy together. "We have—I have a place outside Sioux Falls, small business with farming land too. I'm a mechanic. Anyway I come in from the shop one afternoon and she comes after me with a butcher knife. It's not like I've never done anything to rile the woman, but never did anything to warrant her carving me up either. It's not really her, you know? I can tell that right off. Her eyes are all wrong, nothing but black. She's throwing furniture she's not even touching and me. She throws me like I'm an old newspaper. At some point, I don't even know how, she grabs the power box, shorts out the entire house. She should have dropped like a stone. But she didn't, just kept on coming, jerking and twisting for a bit. She was electrocuted and should have been dead, but kept coming.

"I was able to lock up in a closet but she found me, came right _through_ the door. I didn't want to hurt her, I never meant to. The only thing in there with me was a tire iron, so I swung it. Damn thing dropped her. She just folded up her knees and hit the floor then all this black sooty stuff comes out of her mouth and eyes. So I swing at that too and it goes away.

"I didn't know what to do with her body. I was scared I'd go to prison and I hadn't done anything."

"What did you do?" Ben asked quietly.

"Wrapped her up good, carted her as far into the woods as I could get and—" Tears streamed down Bobby's face, his voice cracked and broke.

"You burned her?" Jake asked. Bobby couldn't do more than nod. Standing and moving so he could rest one hand on Bobby's shoulder and squeeze, Jake reassured him, "You did the best thing. The right thing." Stepping away from the bed, Jake picked up a book Ben had been reading off the table. He rummaged around in one of his duffels for another few seconds, bringing out a notebook. "You need to start keeping a record, write down what works and what doesn't. There're passages and references marked in both these, start by memorizing."

Bobby jerked upright, swinging around to face Jake, his face red and angry. "Books! You want me to read _books_?!" He knocked them out of Jake's hand. Ben winced, bad move.

Bending and picking them up, Jake shoved Bobby back down and dropped the books in his lap. "YES! I do! You want to fight these things? Well in these books are the weapons. Memorize this shit till you can recite it in your sleep because you can't ask the next demon to wait while you get out your notes. You want to do something about what happened to your wife? Well, I'm offering you a way."

"And who the hell do you think you are?" Bobby shouted.

"A guy who has been doing this for twenty years that's who, and is alive enough to tell you what to do."

"We'll need to check out your house too. Demons do things for a reason, trouble is figuring out what the reason is." Ben stood up and stepped between them, cutting off what looked to be another bickering matching brewing.

They packed up and headed out. Every stop for food or a night's rest between Wolf Lake and Sioux Falls turned into _hunting-bad-things 101_ with Jake and Ben tag teaming as instructors and Bobby soaking up every word they uttered. The time wasn't long enough before they found their first encounter with a demon, Bobby Singer in tow.

Jake, of course went in first followed by Bobby with Ben bringing up the rear. Bobby got the chance to set a trap and face off a demon the right way.

* * *

The small farmhouse was too quiet for Jake. Every groan and creak seemed amplified throughout his room, making him edgy. Ben was restless in the bed next to his, and he could tell his brother was picking up on the same noises, each one grating against adrenaline-charged nerves and aiding insomnia.

They'd just finished up a hunt with the Singer kid, had been trying their best to help him learn what he could about demons. Jake was worried though. Worried that the kid was too eager to fight these things, too reckless and too angry to keep his head in the fight. This last one, if Ben and he hadn't been able to find another way into the room, to finish up the rite that Singer was not only botching but taking too long to get through, the demon would have painted the walls with the kid's insides.

"_That all there is to it?" Bobby huffed, catching his breath. He was grinning despite the blood pooling in his right eye from a jagged laceration above his brow. He had a lot of cuts, all from common objects turned projectiles as it looked like a whirlwind had touched down in the room. _

_Ben was checking the guy tied to the chair beneath the Devil's Trap, the one who'd been possessed and nodded when he found a pulse, starting to untie the guy. _

"_Well, hell," Bobby smirked. "That wasn't so bad."_

_Jake took the journal Bobby had been reading from and smacked him upside the head. "Ya __**idjit**__!" Jake barked. "What were you doing reading the whole damn Rituale Romanum? Trying to bore the demon back to Hell?" He flipped open the book and pointed to the shortened version. "Get to the point and send it packing. Most demons won't be able to sit pretty much past the first two lines."_

_Ben was laughing to himself, shaking his head as he hooked an arm under the arm of man they'd just saved, helping him to his feet. "Give him a break, Jake."_

_Bobby rubbed at his head where Jake had hit it then took back the book. He spit blood to the side and pulled his lips back over blood-coated teeth in a grin. "Admit it. I did good, Colt."_

"_Sit down before you fall down, kid." Jake sighed._

"_Admit it. You old guys need me," Bobby laughed as he had a seat, dabbing at the cut over his brow._

_Old guys? Jake not once felt his forty-eight years. Except after a fight like this…_

_He cracked his neck and pointed at Bobby. "Yeah, yeah. Don't get cocky, kid."_

So maybe these "old guys" did need Singer around, but Jake was wary of dragging Bobby into their search for the yellow-eyed demon. It was the only thing Ben and he didn't talk about with Bobby. Boy had enough demons of his own to deal with. And Jake liked the kid. He wasn't about to drag him into a fight against something they'd spent twenty years trying to catch. As soon as they found a new lead, a new trail, a scent, something, they would part ways.

Jake looked over at the clock, noting it was too late to get any decent sleep, too early to get up and move around. His eyes passed over the pictures on the wall, the antique furniture, the dried flowers on the dresser. This was Singer's home. The one in which he lost his wife. Jake couldn't believe that the kid still held onto the place. There were several rooms that clearly still held her essence, her touch, her tastes. How hard was it for the kid to stay here?

The house sat on a good piece of land, and if Jake had to guess, Bobby was probably at one time going to become a farmer, do some good, honest work and get his hands dirty after he returned from Vietnam. Now the back forty was collecting rusted-out cars.

A loud bang, the distinct sound of metal colliding with metal tore open the silence of the house. Jake sat up with Ben, practically in unison, both exchanging 'what the hell?' glances before going to the window. Below them, in the backyard, Singer was taking a tire iron to his Chevelle.

Jake swore, worried that the kid had finally flipped; never one to stand by while a perfectly good car was beaten to death, he grabbed his fedora and jacket from the chair. He could hear Ben falling into step behind him, but he held back on the porch, letting Jake go to talk with Bobby.

Shoving his hands down into his pockets, Jake approached Bobby slowly, cautiously watching him dent up the back of his car. Each blow rocketed back through Jake, and he could almost feel the pain behind each swing.

"Whatcha doin', Singer?" Jake asked.

Bobby stopped swinging only long enough to regard Jake with rage-laced eyes. He sucked in a stuttered breath, winded then took the tire iron to the back tail light. A shard of glass bounced off Jake's jacket and he looked down at it sadly.

"Bobby…"

"I'm sick! And tired! Of being so close and yet so damn far away!"

Jake moved to where he could catch Bobby's eyes. "To what? What do you want, Bobby?"

"Revenge!"

"End up dead real fast that way," Jake said calmly. It was what he'd feared about the kid from the beginning.

"Like drinking poison and waiting for your enemy to die…" Ben added from the porch. He descended the stairs and joined Jake on the lawn.

"I don't care! What kind of legacy can I EVER hope to have? Huh?"

Jake cast a look over at his brother. His legacy. "That's something you gotta figure out for yourself, kiddo. It takes more strength to deal with life outside of what we planned for ourselves. You can't throw away your life for lack of purpose when you haven't tried to find it."

His words only seemed to slide more fire into Bobby's swings. "There's nothing left to find! I fight _demons_, Colt! There's nothing there worth trying for!"

"Then they've won," Jake returned.

With one last feral growl, Bobby launched the tire iron through the back window. "No!"

Jake watched the young man grip the gnarled metal of what had been the trunk of the car, gulping air like water, exhausted and wrung out.

"Feel better?"

The kid was nodding, but his lips gave up the truth, the word slipping from them weighing heavy on Jake's heart. "No…"

Jake put a hand on Bobby's shoulder and was surprised when he didn't try to rip it away.

"Come on, kid. Come inside."

Back hunched, Bobby fell in between Jake and Ben, shoulders almost touching as they guided him back to the house.

* * *

Sam looked over at Dean as his brother slept, silently turning over the things he'd seen in his mind. The echo of Bobby's pain he'd witnessed in his brother. It seemed like ages ago. Dean hadn't known that Sam was watching him in Bobby's scrap yard, beating the hell out of the Impala, each swing resonating the weight and depth of Dean's burdens, his secrets, his anguish; the very things that paved the road for his decisions, his sacrifice.

Bobby didn't know back then, open wounds pouring into every destructive swing, what he meant to two brothers watching him self-destruct, what he would mean to two brothers now. Likewise, Sam didn't think Dean knew fully the extent of what he meant to the brother watching him…

_What kind of legacy can I EVER hope to have? _

Dean and he were Bobby's legacy. Sam hoped Bobby knew that.

Sam looked down the phone in his hands. He'd finally broken down and called Bobby, telling him he couldn't do this alone. Dean was getting better, but that didn't mean he wouldn't take another turn for the worst, and Sam couldn't rest until he knew Dean was okay. He could feel the breath rattle around in his own chest, knew his cold was winning after a night of sleeplessness. He'd only stayed in Jake and Ben's world long enough to guarantee that Dean was asleep and had pulled himself out to watch over his brother.

He had no idea how he was able to do so…but he didn't know how he was able to blow up their TV or land a perfect shot on that damn Aigamuxa either. He didn't want to know. Every time he thought about it, he could feel the blood in his veins crawl in response.

The blood he still had to tell Dean about.

Sam resisted the urge to curl up inside himself at that thought as he heard the bed shift, a light groan leave Dean's lips, bringing a small smile to Sam's. Dean was going to be okay, except there was no cure for the Winchester stubborn ass gene.

His fever was down, but Sam wanted it gone, and he wasn't going to be able to untwist his nerves until the fever was absent from his brother's body. He'd forced fluids when Dean was awake for small bouts of time, keeping his flesh cool with wet towels. The poultice he'd applied had taken a lot of heat and inflammation out of the skin around the wound.

Sam wanted to shake Dean, but he could still hear his brother's confession of guilt, could still feel it slide sharply through his ribs and up into his heart.

Dean's head turned toward him like he instinctively knew where Sam would be, fever-taxed eyes working their way open.

"Dean?" Sam started. "You okay?"

"'M hungry," Dean moaned, throat working, sounding rough and dry.

"You serious?" Sam asked, laughing a little.

"Do I ever kid about food?" he asked, giving Sam a lopsided grin.

"Unbelievable," Sam huffed. Dean and his stomach. "I'll head out later, okay. For now…" he moved the bottle of Gatorade into Dean's line of vision. Sam smiled at the role reversal when Dean eyed the liquid with something akin to disdain. "Don't make me sit on you."

"Nazi," Dean sighed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

"Dean?"

"Mmm?"

"You okay?"

"Jus' tired…" he swallowed thickly. "Hey…was it me or…was Bobby one weird looking kid?"

Sam snickered. "Yeah, well, looks like that hat of his was glued on at birth." Sam shook his head. "These hunters are connected to a lot in our lives, and we never even heard of them. The hunts, Yellow-eyes, Bobby…what else?"

* * *

Dean took the journal and flipped a few pages, slow smile spreading over his face as he settled back against his pillows again. "They ditched Bobby," He chuckled then turned the book so Sam could see the entry.

**July 28, 1973**

_Ben says he feels like we're ditching out on a prom date and skipping out on pay the dinner bill. Not that we've, okay Ben has ever done that. Singer has a home he wants to keep and we've no right to drag him into our life. He can take what we taught him and do with it what he thinks is right. I just hope it doesn't get him killed._

_So, yeah, maybe sneaking off in the middle of the night on him, pushing our car to the road so the engine wouldn't wake him up was a crappy thing to do, but he's better off for it, I know that for sure. Ben and I've been in this a long time and been a team even longer. I feel bad but adding a third just won't work. If Singer needs help, he knows how to reach us and how I hope he never needs that help._

"Huh," Dean skipped ahead farther. "Get comfy, Sammy, this is going to interest you."

"Dean, maybe we should give it a break."

"Only if you're gonna get some sleep and stop hovering over me." Dean shot back. If Dean couldn't be fed he might as well be assured they'd both get some more sleep and a few more answers.

Sam gave him a look that was something between sullen and downright snotty but stretched out on the other bed and rolled onto his side, one arm folded under his head for a pillow, watching Dean intently.

_What kind of legacy can I EVER hope to have?_

Dean swigged some of the Gatorade, just to satisfy his brother and set the bottle on the nightstand between their beds. There was a time he couldn't answer that question, funny how it wasn't even a question anymore. There was duty and destiny, honor and responsibility, and all his was a few feet away watching him with sleepy eyes.

Clearing his throat and focusing on the page he'd found, Dean read.

**Hartford, Connecticut, November 2, 1975**

"You sure about this?" Ben pressed his back to the wall next to the door of the abandoned factory and turned his head far enough to meet Jake's eyes. "Think this Elkins guy is right?"

Jake barely glanced up from checking the load on his shotgun. Tucking that under one arm, he pulled out his good luck gun and loaded that. "I don't know, but I'm not taking chances. He says he's got some information for us about Yellow-eyes. I want to know what it is."

"Why do you even bother with that old thing?" Ben always worried that if Jake tried shooting the antique weapon the thing would blow up in his face. "Aren't those the _special_ bullets you never use?"

Stopping long enough to grin at Ben, Jake slid the final bullet into it and clicked closed the chamber, tucking it behind his back. "Ah, Benny, I thought you loved the history this gun represents. They're just bullets; I don't know what's so special about them. Besides I don't have any other ammo for it right now."

"Yeah, I do, when it's locked in the trunk." Ben knew why Jake kept the gun. It and the car were the only two things they had left from their family. Ben didn't remember the uncle, Jake claimed he was crazy, who'd given Jake the gun just months before their parents died but he'd heard the story enough from Jake. Take the gun, a Colt Revolver, keep it safe and at your side, it's for men like us and will guard against evil.

Ben bit back a laugh at the thought. What would crazy uncle-whoever think of the men he and Jake were now? He'd never admit it but the gun was special to him too. Jake had taught himself to shoot with the Colt before entering the police academy. He'd taught Ben to handle guns with that old Colt. That had been a lot of years ago, but Jake claimed he'd kept it in perfect working order.

A gust of frigid wind blew across his shoulders, ruffled his hair and his nerves.

"Why do they always have to pick the creepiest places in a town to meet?" Jake groused and dipped his head at the door. "You know, what's wrong with a nice diner or sunny park?" In the next second he was moving at it, fluid and fast. One solid kick and the door was open, they were inside.

Jake scanned left and right while Ben covered the high and low. Following his brother's steps, Ben paced into the old warehouse. Jake was right the place was creepy as Hell and a defense disaster. There were walkways two stories above and enough junk scattered around that the place was a maze.

"Stay there." A voice rattled down from one of the walkways. A silhouette of a man resolved into color and facial features as he moved closer. A holster slung around his hip held a handgun. His right hand gripped a small, gas powered saw.

Jake glanced at Ben for a second then sidestepped enough he was mostly standing in front of Ben and blocking the man's path to him. "You Elkins?"

"Yeah." Elkins's gaze skittered nervously around the area. He dug in his pocket with his free hand, produced a piece of paper and held it out to Jake who took it, glanced at it and handed it to Ben who shoved it into his own pocket.

That was the last clear thought Ben had.

Something hard and _heavy_ landed on his shoulders knocking him forward and into Jake. Blood slipped over his forehead and into his eyes. He tried brushing it away. Jake's voice, shouting but sounding far away though Ben knew it had to be practically next to his ear made him realize the blood was his. Watching in fascination as his gun dropped in slow motion to the floor and spun away, Ben's knees folded, and he started his own slow slide down.

Elkins was going after something with his saw. Jake fumbled behind his back for his lucky Colt Revolver with one hand and threw his other arm across Ben's chest hauling him up and bracing Ben against his own body, backing up.

Ben blinked and sucked in his breath, cringing back against Jake when someone—something—came at them. Something with long, narrow fangs and wild eyes. Jake's reaction was immediate. His free arm came up and he fired hitting their assailant dead center in the chest.

The oncoming man was stopped mid-leap. He didn't fall to the ground dead, he shattered, exploding outward in a rain of blood, guts and overcoat.

"What the—?" Jake held the gun at eye level and stared wide-eyed at it. He swung around, shoving Ben with him and took another shot at another of the things.

"Damn vamps, musta followed me…sorry." Elkins shouted.

Something hit him and Jake, sending them both to their knees. Jake was up, dragging Ben with him when shots rang out. Ben's head swirled, his senses twisted the world around to something unfamiliar and grotesque. Curling back against Jake's chest, his vision went gray, gasping and fighting away the black edging in from his periphery.

The world dropped away and Ben lost his fight to stay conscious.

Jerking, trying to get upright, Ben's eyes snapped open. He stared at a ceiling. His entire body twitched and snapped in his effort to get free, get away, fight.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Take it easy, kiddo."

A warm, strong, solid hand pressed against his shoulder. Head jerking to the side, Jake swam into view and shimmered in waves for a few seconds until Ben's eyes decided to work right and focus. "Jake?"

"S'okay. You're okay, safe."

"Whaa…?" A glass of water was pressed to his lips. Ben drank, realizing he was parched. His throat opened up from the cool liquid sliding down. He was on a mattress, a bed, in a motel room. The mattress dipped and Ben turned toward the motion.

"Vampires." Jake huffed a short laugh. He took the glass and set it on the nightstand. "I got one, shot it, and Elkins took the head off the other two. That's why the saw."

Ben nodded. "You shot it with that old gun. It just…" he struggled for the right word, "poof." Maybe not the greatest word, but descriptive enough.

"Yeah." Shoving one arm under Ben's shoulders, Jake eased him up until he could sit, leaning back against the headboard. "Guess the stories were true. Elkins started babbling about how he'd been looking for it for years. A gun, special gun that kills evil. Or maybe it's the special bullets."

"We had it all along. A gun that…our lives sure would have been simpler." He eased his head side to side and rubbed kinks from his neck. "You figure out how it works?"

"Nope. I gave it to Elkins."

"You gave—? Why?"

"Uh, well it was either that or he sharpened his saw on your neck."

Ben's head bumped back, he closed his eyes and sighed. "Figures. We tote that thing around for all our lives and the day we find out it's more powerful and useful than any other weapon we have and it gets stolen." Turning his head, he looked at Jake and let his hand drop to his brother's arm. He knew how much that old gun meant to Jake and not for its evil killing abilities. "I'm sorry."

Jake offered him a small smile. "I'm not."

Three days later Ben's head stopped spinning enough for he and Jake to check out the lead on Yellow-eyes.

**A/N**: Yes, it's baseball season and I'm going to say it! GO TRIBE!!!!!--Bayre


	8. Chapter 8

C&W—Chapter 8

**Marion, Indiana, November, 1975**

_I don't want to set the world on fire. I just want to start a flame in your heart_.

The grainy and eerily nostalgic thrum of the _Inkspots_ slid sideways through Jake's ears as they entered the house. The sound was reverberating loudly from the record player in the bedroom, crawling through the dark house, and was the only thing to greet them at the door.

They'd knocked, waiting for an answer, hoping Elle would come to the door, but the house stood silent and dark after the electrical surge, like the black head of a match after the flame had been blown out. Jake could feel the energy still around them, felt it raise the hairs on his arms and along the back of his neck.

This was Elle Reese's home. She lived in the town that Elkins had directed them to, and while Jake had doubts if they should trust Elkins after he'd stolen a family heirloom, he couldn't deny the hard evidence. There had been cattle deaths and electrical storms in the region. Elkins was a coward, but he wasn't a bad hunter, and he'd given them the lead on the demon before he'd known they had something he wanted. Jake swore if he saw Elkins again, he'd sharpen something on his neck like he'd threatened to do to his little brother.

Ben had fallen in silently beside him, eyes searching the absorbing shadows. He had been the one to pick Elle Reese's home. He'd met her in the park near her house, met her six-month-old-son. The pattern seemed to be with the yellow-eyed man that he had a penchant for infants, and as for the families that they'd encountered in their search, many had six-month-old children.

There was movement upstairs, drawing both their eyes to the staircase and the unknown black at the top. Jake moved forward first, taking the right, shotgun loaded and ready in his hand, and Ben, his mirror image in solid stance, folded up against the left, keeping an eye to their rear.

There was a rustling sound like dry autumn leaves and the quiet murmur of a child coming from a room at the top of the stairs. They found themselves standing in a nursery as they rounded the corner. A man was hovering in the shadows above the baby's crib. He didn't acknowledge them; dark, unknown whispers were pouring from his lips as the brothers drew closer, guns leveled on the dark figure.

Jake's eyes fell upon the dark splotches resting on the child's small lips, running down the smooth white of his soft cheeks as the baby sputtered and coughed. Keeping one eye on the man standing over the crib, Jake's gaze jumped to the child as the baby started to cry, turning his small face into his blankets, smearing them red.

"What the hell?" he breathed, jerking his gaze to the man who had been stone still, eyes closed, dark, thick liquid squeezing through the fingers of his fisted hand, landing in the open mouth of the child below.

Ben was pale beside him as realization slid over the both of them. _Blood_. This man was feeding the child blood.

The man's eyes opened and both Jake and Ben startled back as cold light emitted from the yellow beads set in his skull. After all the years of following leads on Mary Shards' killer, of hearing about a man with yellow eyes, a demon, Jake and his brother were finally face-to-face with the evil they had felt perforate every cell and fiber in the Shards' home.

Jake knew too well that hesitation meant death, but the shock of finding this unnatural killer, the one whom they'd been searching for, made the blood in his veins sluggish and cold, his finger frozen over the trigger.

The demon's eyes narrowed down to golden slits as he stared down the barrels of their two shotguns. "Hunters," he said, the word rolled low in his throat. "I hate being interrupted," he sighed, tiredly. Mouth twisting into a crooked smile he shrugged. "Isn't that right, Elle?"

Following the demon's gaze to the corner of the nursery, Jake saw the mother, Elle, wedged in the crook where the nursery walls met the ceiling, feet dangling five, six feet from the ground, face twisted in agony, all sounds of pain stilled on her lips. She sucked in a wet and desperate breath, coughing as though she'd been lifted from water. She started to cry, sobbing as she hung there against the ceiling.

Nothing could have prepared them for what they were seeing; as Elle managed to let go a breathy cry for help between her sobs, Ben was the first to snap back from the shock, taking aim, but too late. Their guns were ripped from their hands and tossed through the door of the nursery into the hall, the door slamming shut. Jake hit the wall behind him hard enough to feel the wall give, something snapping along his ribs, leaving his lungs starving for air, his side burning with pain.

Through watering eyes he searched for Ben, finding him against the opposite wall, stunned, pinned like he was. Jake tried to move, but like some mounted insect, he was stuck to the wall behind him, all limbs rendered useless, numb, encased in some unbearable and invisible weight.

The demon looked between the brothers, then stalked toward Ben before Jake could find his voice.

"Been looking for you for a long time," Jake said. "The man with the yellow eyes. Thought you'd be…taller."

The demon smirked, eyes seeming to brighten in the dark. "That so? As you've figured out, I'm no _man_. Just wearing the human meat suit."

"Was right about one thing."

The demon huffed. "This should be good. Considering you two cowboys needed to do a little more research. Then you would have stayed away."

"You're just like any other demon I've met. A coward who hides behind people. Kills women, leaves their children orphans," Jake growled.

"Just like _any_ other demon?" Yellow-eyes sighed. "I see neither of you truly appreciate what's going on here. For the record, I don't leave orphans. I'll take care of all _my_ children."

Jake looked over at Ben, silently praying that he was all right. Ben looked like he was having trouble breathing, the impact of the attack having stunned him. They weren't as young as they used to be, but when Ben locked eyes with his, letting him know that he was okay, Jake saw there fire that refused to go out, just as strong as it had been when he was in his twenties, and he knew Ben was with him in the fight at hand.

Jake felt his strength renewed.

"He's not your child," Elle sobbed. "Leave him alone."

"Maybe not my seed," Yellow-eyes cooed, "but as of tonight, he is my son."

"How?" Jake growled.

"The blood…" Ben groaned out, seeming to finally find the air to breathe out his words.

"He's the brains of your outfit, isn't he?" The demon smirked at Jake. "Yes, the blood. Powerful. Binding."

He went over to Ben and took hold of his chin, lifting it to meet his disgusting eyes. "You've got me all figured out, don't ya?" He shrugged. "Guess it won't hurt to indulge your curiosity. I'll be redecorating my new son's nursery with your entrails soon anyway. Which reciprocally piques my own curiosity. Why me? Why are you here? What has Fate in all her twisted glory done bringing you here to me tonight?" He looked between the two. "Did I kill someone you love?" He asked, his tone that of mild curiosity, uncaring of the answer.

Elle whined and he turned his eyes sharply to her, her crying squeezed off in a struggled wheeze in her throat like someone was pressing against her windpipe. "Patience, Elle, darling. We'll get to your role in all this."

His question to the brothers still hung in the air and Jake narrowed his eyes when the demon came closer to him. The demon tilted his head to the side as he studied Jake, closing his eyes for a moment.

"No? Well then," his eyes snapped back open. "Now that I see inside that head of yours, I will have to remedy that." He smiled cruelly. "Brothers, right? I'll let you pick who gets to watch the other die. Flip a coin maybe? Draw straws? Rock, paper, scissors?" He laughed. "An oracle once told me, right before I tore out her eyes with pieces from her crystal ball, that I would die at the hands of brothers. Even gave me their names." He picked up Jake's hat from the floor where it had fallen and stuck it back on his head. "Wonder if she saw her own death coming…" He snapped his finger against the brim, pushing it down into his eyes. "Won't be the two of you. Don't get excited, _Jake_."

Jake's head shot up, gaze settling with contempt on the yellow marble of the demon's eyes.

"Surprised I know your name? Don't get a big head now, Colt, but I heard you were looking for me. The more I look right through you, the more I'm learning about your pathetic crusade to make this world demon free. You two aren't here for revenge. You're here for _justice_," the demon huffed. "And look what it got you. Doing the _right_ thing…How does it feel to know you wasted your life for a woman you didn't even know?"

"He didn't waste his life," Ben returned from his side of the room. Jake heard the pride in his brother's voice.

The demon smirked. "That's right. Not on Shards anyway. He wasted it on you, Ben."

Jake growled low in his throat. "Don't pretend to know me," he said. "I want to know why… why Mary Shards?"

The demon shrugged and went to stand beneath Elle. "Why Elle? Why you? Why Mary Shards?"

Her tears fell silently against his face and he wiped them from his cheek in disgust, as though they were dirt. Her son started to stir, a weak cry burbling from the crib as the demon returned to it. "I collect children, Colt. I'd tell you why, but you never know who is listening." He moved to a shelf where a small angel figurine was sitting and plucked it from its perch, setting it on fire in his hand. "Elle's child here is special, and now, he's mine." The demon circled the crib. "Only one will be what I've been looking for all these years. But I never know what kind of _gems_ I'll find along the way."

Jake was shaking, fingers curled into tight fists at his side as he pulled against his invisible restraints.

"Looking forward to '83," the demon smiled. "Good year for me. I nabbed myself a bunch of good stock in '73. One was a little bitch named Mary. Kinda like _your_ Mary, Jake…only this woman was a much better fighter."

Jake felt the blood rush to his cheeks, hatred flowing through him for this thing that they had searched so long for…and for what? They weren't ready. They needed the gun Elkins had stolen. And the yellow-eyed bastard was doing things to children, to families that Jake couldn't have ever imagined. It _couldn't_ win. It couldn't leave this room. And yet Ben and he were stuck, useless to the poor woman who was staring at them like they could save her. Useless to each other…

"Ten year deals," Ben added, putting it together. "Ten years between tragedy and when you show up. Ten years before the murders and the fires we've been tracking…"

"That's the agreement. Ten years and I come knocking. And if you go back on your deal, like Mary Shards, or you get in the way, like Elle here…well, you'll see soon enough."

Elle gasped like her throat had finally been released, and the demon went to her, peering up at her in curiosity.

"Did we not have an agreement?" he asked.

"Not this…" she breathed. "Not this! If I had known…I would have asked for death! Not my child…please…"

"You agreed to allow whatever I asked for in ten years. Did I not give you back your family? Tragic that they all died in a car accident two years later. But I'm not in charge of the chaotic entropy of the universe, my dear. You need to take up your complaint with _upper management_."

"So you prey on loss…" Jake sneered. "You take advantage of people's pain!"

"Demon," Yellow-eyes pointed to himself. "None of this should come as a shock to you, Jake."

"You used Mary Shards' sister…" Ben stated.

"Yes, brothers, aunts, fathers, poodles, pet goldfish, whatever these whiny, bleeding souls want back, I give to them, but not for free. Not without a price."

"A price they don't know about," Jake returned.

Yellow-eyes laughed. "They have to know. Deals with devils can never be good. No matter what is on the table. They have to know I'm not coming for the furniture when I don't want _their_ soul." He huffed. "Like my sweet Mary of '73. Snapped the neck of her fiancé in front of her, murdered her parents, and she 'put out,' if you will, just so she wouldn't be alone. People would rather sell their souls then be alone."

"Or they'd rather lay down their lives for those they love," Ben returned.

"I liked you better when you were the 'smart one', Ben," the demon snorted. "Now you sound like a fortune cookie. Optimism is never a good color on a hunter. Red however…" his smile grew and twisted even more. "No sacrifice is _selfless_."

"Your kind knows nothing of sacrifice or family," Ben said quietly.

"Show me then, Ben." Yellow-eyes challenged, seeming to be enjoying himself a little too much. "Who goes first? Jake or yourself?"

"Wait! No, Ben," Jake struggled to look around the demon standing between them to his brother. "Wait…you don't have to choose. Don't make him choose, you son of a bitch!"

"I'll go first," Ben replied, eyes like steel.

The demon scoffed. "What? No offer?"

"There's nothing to gain from deals with devils. You'll kill us both anyway. If some higher power moves its hand to save us too late, then if I go first…Jake will live."

The demon's eyes seemed to grow brighter as he turned them back to Jake. "Which is exactly why…Jake's dying first."

The demon practically slithered toward Jake, the child screaming in its crib for a mother who couldn't comfort it. Yellow-eyes held out a hand and Jake felt his body being pushed back into the wall, bones crushing against one another, the air being rolled out of his lungs.

And then it stopped, leaving Jake's burning lungs desperately seeking relief. The demon was staring at him, disbelief written in the deepening lines around the grotesque yellow beads for eyes.

"You didn't come alone," he growled, closing the distance between himself and Jake, twisting fingers in his shirt. As the demon studied him, Jake couldn't help but feel that it was looking beyond him… or at something within him. Yellow-eyes turned back to Ben, eyes narrowing like he was seeing something within his brother as well.

"You have someone else staring out through both your eyes, Colt," the demon smirked. Both of you do. Flies on the wall. Angels on your shoulders if you will. Too bad they're only here observing. I would love nothing more than to crush the 'angel' on your shoulder, Jake. But I'll rip him open and tear out his heart soon enough." His grin churned Jake's stomach especially as the demon got closer, the scent of mint and sulfur wafting on his breath. "Less than ten years and I come for your brother, Dean. And there's _nothing_ you can do about it."

Jake blinked back his confusion as the demon advanced to Ben, breathing deeply over him, like he was taking in the scent of a fine wine. He exhaled and Jake caught a name.

"Sam…"

The satisfaction and pleasure that coiled around the name in the demon's mouth sent cold through Jake's core. What the hell was this demon seeing? Angels? Ghosts?

"Show's over, boys," Yellow-eyes growled.

Jake's heart shuddered violently in his chest, suddenly ripped sideways and into his ribcage. He threw his head back against the wall, a cry emptying his lungs in agony, tearing up through his throat and echoing with Ben's. Blood crushed up into his throat, choking him, right before an explosion of sound snapped through the air like lightning, and Yellow-eyes staggered back from both of them, shoulder blossoming dark blood.

Eyes wide with fear, the demon threw back its head, black smoke erupting from the chimney of the man's throat, the shell of his dead body hitting the ground before the dark cloud disappeared in a whirlwind of fire and sulfur.

Jake and Ben fell free from the walls onto their hands and knees, Elle collapsing in a heap in the corner. Clawing for breath, surprised he could still move, Jake raised his eyes to the shadow that stood the nursery doorway, the smoke from the gun curling up his arm.

"Now we're square," Elkin's voice slid from the black.

Ben was limping toward Elle, rolling her onto her side as she coughed and gasped for air, sobbing as he tried to help her.

"Like _hell_," Jake ground out, holding his chest as he pushed to his feet, teetering uneasily, weak. If he was strong enough to stand, that was good enough for him. The taste of blood washed over his tongue, but he ignored it. He supposed Elkins wanted a 'thank you' for saving their lives. He wouldn't get a damn thing but Jake's boot up his ass.

He heard the metallic cocking of the hammer and saw Elkins level the gun between his eyes.

"We're _square_," Elkins repeated darkly, before backing away. He then turned, fleeing.

Jake started after him, denying the tilt of gravity and the extent of his injuries, but Ben's fingers curled around his bicep, stopping him.

"Let it go, Jake," he wheezed, still catching his own breath, hand massaging the muscle above his heart. "You think you're twenty again? Let the coward go. He saved our lives..."

Jake set his jaw angrily, wanting to get his gun back from the bastard who'd threatened Ben...but his brother was right and he dropped his shoulders, placing a hand over Ben's. "You okay?"

Ben's eyes swung to Elle as she scooped up her son and held him to her chest, crying over him, apologizing repeatedly through her tears.

"I will be…" Ben sighed, and Jake could hear the same underlying response echoing through his own mind. They'd be okay when they knew evil like that was gone from the shadows.

The brothers moved toward the fallen man, his wide, dead eyes no longer like painted yellow glass.

The yellow-eyed demon was still out there…

* * *

Bolting upright in bed, Dean went from asleep and horrified to awake and horrified in the span of a breath. He looked around the room and for a brief, terrible second thought Sam had died in the transition from the past to present.

The room was deathly, utterly quiet.

_Dark splotches resting on the child's small lips, running down the smooth white of his soft cheeks as it sputtered and coughed_.

It took a few seconds for his senses to begin registering the tiny, telltale noises, the numbers on the clock flicking over from one to the next, the slight drip of water from the shower, a horn honking somewhere distant enough it was barely heard, the squeak of a bed from some movement, the pounding of his blood in his ears and through his leg. Sam's breathing.

_Sam's breathing_. Dean took a breath. _I wasn't going to wake up_. Sam's breathing.

Dean turned his head far enough to see his brother. "How the _HELL_ did that thing know we could see too?" Dean's voice trailed away when he took a good look at Sam. Sitting up in bed, starting at him, Dean realized the squeak of the bed was caused by Sam shaking so hard he was rattling the old springs.

_The man who had been stone still, eyes closed, dark, thick liquid squeezing through the fingers of his fisted hand_.

Dean blinked his eyes hard and willed the image in front of him away. This kid in the bed next to his didn't even look like Sam. Pale, gaunt, barely breathing with hollowed out eyes, skin pasty white and covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

"Sammy." Dean's voice sounded odd, cracked and rough.

_Blood. This man was feeding the child blood_.

Eyes getting even wider, which Dean thought would be impossible, Sam finally moved. He jerked in a sharp, ragged breath. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Sam bolted across the room and out the door.

Stunned, Dean sat there staring stupidly at the door banging and creaking on its hinges.

_I wasn't going to wake up. What legacy can I EVER hope to leave? Can't get what you can't give. I wasn't going to wake up. I wasn't going to wake up_. _This man was feeding the child blood_.

Shit. Damn. Shit, damn, crap. _Crap_!

The second Dean's feet hit the floor pain rocketed up from his calf and seared across his shoulders. He ignored it and ran out the door after his brother. Normally Dean was faster even if Sam had longer legs, but infection was slowing him down. Sam's lungs were filled with more gunk than air, he'd wear down faster.

Feet pounding hard against the pavement, Dean followed Sam. His brother's breathing was already slowing him down, long breaths drawn out to wet, ragged intakes of air. Sam ran between a row of cars in the parking lot, probably not even knowing where he was going or with a specific destination in mind. Changing direction and going around one of the cars, Dean cut in front of Sam and threw himself at his brother, stopping him with a flying tackle.

They hit the pavement and skidded a few feet. Sam whimpered when his arms and hands were pushed against the pavement and a layer of skin peeled away. For a few seconds they stayed like that, Sam pinned to the pavement by Dean's weight, bringing their breathing under control. Finally able to catch his breath and regain some control, Dean levered up onto his knees and off Sam's back, one hand gripping Sam's shoulder.

"Sam?"

Rolling over, Sam curled in on himself, pulling knees closer to his chest he scuttled back…_away_ from Dean. Extending his arm, Dean kept contact while the rest of him stayed put. "Don't you ever run from me, Sammy. You don't ever have to run from me."

Sam made some tortured noise in the back of his throat, shook his head and tried backing away further. This time he was blocked by a car. His eyes skittered from one object to the next, barely landing on Dean.

"Sammy." Dean tightened his grip on Sam's shoulder and inched forward. When Sam ducked his head and turned away a fraction, looking like some frightened, trapped wild animal seeking escape, Dean froze. "You don't ever need to run from me." When shudders wracked Sam's body, Dean crept a few inches closer. "Sam," he kept his voice low and soft, "What did you—"

Sam shuddered and gulped down an odd noise, shaking his head, arms around his knees in a death grip. When Dean saw the shimmer of tears, it all snapped into place.

_I wasn't going to wake up. Blood. This man was feeding the child blood_.

How long had Sam been carrying this around? If he was honest with himself, he already knew the answer but asked anyway. "When, Sammy?"

"Co-cold Oak." Sam swallowed, eyes doing another few scans of the area before landing back on Dean for a second then his gaze shifted to the ground. "Yellow-eyes showed me the night Mom—that night."

"Sam." Dean squeezed Sam's shoulder hard.

Sam's gaze finally came up and met his, tears threatening to spill over. "He showed me." His voice was a soft whisper, and Dean heard the desperate plea behind the words.

Dean's leg was violently protesting his position. "Sammy, I gotta get up. Help me up. It's four-thirty in the morning. We're going back inside." Using Sam's shoulder as a brace, Dean tried pushing off the ground but swayed and stumbled.

At once Sam was on his feet, hands gripping Dean's arm and elbow he took some of Dean's weight. "Dean, I'm half demon. My own mother, she—" Sam's voice broke and stopped.

Hopping on one foot across the parking lot and into their room, Dean stopped and shut the door, bolted it and put up the chain lock. He had no delusions, a flimsy motel door, a tiny piece of chain and a cheap deadlock weren't going to stop Sam from bulldozing through if he tried to run again. They would, however, hopefully slow him down enough for Dean to catch up to him.

Fist curling in Sam's shirt Dean shoved him at a bed and sat him on it. "Sammy, you were six months old, a baby."

"I'm part demon."

"Oh for crap's sake, Sam, where do you come up with this stuff? If I drink cow's blood does that make me half cow?"

One corner of Sam's mouth twitched up, "Maybe mostly bull."

"You drink holy water, and I've seen you walk in and out of a Devil's Trap, you read exorcisms and _eat_ salt. Sam, you are _NOT_ half demon. He did that for a reason, I'll grant you that, but you're not half demon."

"She sold me out. She didn't even know me."

Dean sighed, how was he going to fix this? A mother who offered Sam to a demon and a father whose parting words were to put down that same son. He could only imagine how Sam must feel, the hurt, the betrayal. Running one hand through his hair he pulled a chair next to the bed and eased onto it. He put his other hand on Sam's shoulder and hung on tight. "I—" What could he possibly say?

Sam glanced up, wiping tears dripping off his nose with the back of one hand.

"I carried you out of a burning house. I taught you to tie your shoes, shoot a gun, shave, how to steal a car _and_ drive it. I made you dinner and bandaged your skinned knees and I'm here. I can't fix those things Mom did, or Dad. I wish I could, wish I could make them go away, but I can't." Anger bubbled up in Dean's chest. All these things were done with consequences put on two small boys, with no forethought as to what would become of the lives of the men they grew into. His shoulders felt heavy, actions taken before he and Sam were ever born and now left to him to deal with and put right. "I'm here, Sam. So are you. We got nothing but each other and whatever we have to do to deal with this thing, all this crap, we will. We'll do it together."

It was all he had to offer his brother. Dean hoped it was enough.

A tear coursed down Sam's face and dripped off his nose to splatter on the back of Dean's hand. Sam's head dipped in one tiny, tight jerk of a nod and Dean was able to breathe again. What Dean had to offer just might be enough after all.


	9. Chapter 9

CW—Chapter 9

Dean sat flipping through the journal, but Sam could tell he wasn't really reading anything. Sam had spent the better part of an hour trying to not be obvious about the fact he'd been watching Dean.

His brother's face was that passive, neutral expression that made Sam think Dean was absorbed in some inner conversation with himself. He was sitting on the bed, seeming relaxed, but the tension that hung in the air Sam could part with his fingers. He didn't have to guess much to know what Dean was contemplating or why there was the tension.

"I'm sorry." The words blurted out of Sam's mouth before he thought much about them.

Dean glanced up, genuine surprise and curiosity on his face. "About what?"

"That I didn't tell you. That it even happened…that I'm—"

Bristling and sitting straighter Dean's face turned to anger. Pointing at Sam he snapped out, "If you say because you're half demon I'm beating the crap out of you right here and now."

Sam shut his mouth and stared at the end of his bed.

"Why didn't you just tell me, Sammy?"

Shrugging, Sam had no ready answer for that one, and about a dozen reasons lined up in his head. None of them really explained anything. The truth was there was one and only one reason. "I was…I didn't know…it scared me."

"I traded my soul for your life, Sam. I've put you above everyone and everything. Maybe you could have given the guy who raised you and knows you better than anyone a tiny, little bit of credit?"

Okay, now didn't that just bite?

"Don't you get it by now there are some things I just don't give up on? I'll never give up on?" Dean asked quietly.

Sam nodded. In retrospect his fears and keeping what he knew from Dean seemed stupid. It had certainly been unnecessary and caused him much unneeded grief and sleepless nights.

"Is there anything else, Sam?"

Picking at the sheet Sam shook his head, "I don't think so."

Dean laughed at that. "I've sort of lost track myself." His voice and face softened. "I'm not giving up, Sam. Not ever, for any reason. I don't care what you think was done, or how bad it is. You're the only brother I've got and I'm not giving up. That's a promise."

Sam swallowed around the lump in his throat. He didn't know what to say, or even if there was anything to say. It didn't matter; speaking wasn't going to happen for a few minutes.

"I found something." Dean held the Colt's journal up facing out so Sam could see what was on the page Dean had opened it to.

He had to blink a few times to clear his vision while his eyes skimmed the entry and his brain homed in on some key words. _Lawrence, Kansas, John, Mary_. Sam sucked in a breath and looked up, meeting Dean's clear, steady eyes.

"I don't know if I want…if I can…"

"I don't know if I can't," Dean said softly and set the book down on his bed beside his leg.

Sam's eyes followed the movement then went back to Dean's face. This time his brother's expression was open and readable. Dean wanted to know, he wanted to see his parents and know what brought them together with Jake and Ben Colt. Dean wanted it very much, but he'd give it up for Sam. Yet another thing in their lives Dean would give up for Sam, do it willingly and without regret or malice.

Not this time. Not anymore.

Sam leaned over, fingers brushing over the old, worn leather for a few seconds before he took firm hold of the book, leaned back against the headboard and opened it to the page Dean had shown him. "I think _we_ can." He watched Dean rustle around for a few minutes, getting more comfortable. "Dude! Why don't you just stand up, turn around three times and make a nest?"

Dean tossed a pillow at him, which Sam caught and chucked right back.

"I'm comfy now."

Snorting, Sam cleared his throat, took a swig of water, propped the journal on his bent knees and began to read.

**July 1, 1977 Lawrence, Kansas**

"I'm getting too old for this crap." Jake mumbled for the third time and shoved against the car door, one hand inside turning the not so agreeable steering wheel. "She's definitely getting too old for this. Will you put your back into it?" The final words were snapped at Ben.

Huffing, Ben ignored Jake's sour mood. He wasn't in such dandy spirits himself and if he didn't keep his mouth shut the two of them were going to end up yelling at one another. It wasn't his fault the car had broken down and it wasn't his fault it was so damn old getting parts took some sort of act of Congress, God being their second choice.

Jake stopped long enough to wipe one arm across his forehead. Of course when he stopped, the car stopped and Ben tripped up the back end, sprawled over it for a few seconds before nearly ending up on his butt.

Ben barked out a, "Hey!" when Jake turned to him, Ben silently chastised himself for not engaging brain _before_ mouth. "It's not my fault."

"I know," Jake said softly and settled on the running board. "This is one heavy-ass car."

Straightening, Ben leaned back, then stretched side to side. "Sit tight, I have an idea."

"Where are you—?"

"Just give me a minute, I'll be right back." Ben called over his shoulder as he jogged down the street.

The back of the repair shop Ben spotted was open, a fan in one end blowing warm air through the large, damp space inside. "Hey. Hello? Anyone home?" _Please let there be someone here before I have a damn heart_ _attack pushing that car_.

"Can I help you?" A kid, maybe twenty to twenty-five appeared from under one of the newer, smaller, more gas efficient cars. He wiped his hands on a rag that didn't do much other than move the grease around his hands and smiled at Ben.

"Yeah, I hope so. I've got a car…"

The kid glanced around at the garage full of cars in various states of repair, "Me too."

Sighing, Ben pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, why did everyone feel the need to drench him in sarcasm? "I have this car…it's the size of a very _large_ Sherman tank and weighs about three times as much."

The kid nodded, "We should probably use the flatbed then."

A few minutes later Ben was climbing into the passenger side of the flatbed truck. "I should probably warn you, it's my brother's car and I think he believes he gave birth to it."

Suddenly the kid brightened, huge grin splitting all over his face. "She must be a great car!"

Before the truck even pulled up next to the Chevy Master and the kid beside him exhaled a sharp, "Schweet car!" Ben knew he'd become invisible and marveled once again at how the generation gap snapped shut when two guys found common ground in an old car.

Ben managed to coax Jake out of the repair shop and head to a nearby diner telling Jake he needed to let the kid work on their car in peace. "We'll find the money, we always do." Ben said between bites of BLT.

"We're all too old for this." Jake mumbled.

"Speak for yourself." Ben grinned and poked Jake's shin with his toe.

"Naw, seriously, Benny. We follow the trail and it dies. Every time it's getting harder and harder to pick up on Yellow-Eyes. You want to be doing this when you're seventy? Because I sure don't. We have to find it. We have to stop it and I'd sure like to do that before I die."

"You're nowhere near dying," Ben said quietly.

Jake's eyes softened, "I know. You know what I mean."

"Look, we did everything we could and we've done a lot of good things along the way. Maybe it's time we just let it go. There're others, Singer, others we've met who are far more spry than we are and with more ambition. Let them have a crack at it too. Our turn is over."

Jake shrugged, threw down some money on the table and nodded. "Let's go check out the car."

The kid—Ben made a mental note to ask his name—was sitting at a dirty desk, writing on a piece of paper when they got back to the garage. He looked up and smiled at them with kind, dark eyes. "I have a quote for you. It'll take a few days to order parts, some aren't easy to come by."

Ben peered over Jake's shoulder at the paper the kid handed him. Jake's hand shook and Ben saw how his face fell. Hand on Jake's shoulder, it suddenly hit Ben hard, this was their home and it might have to be left behind. "Would we be able to store it here for a bit? That's a lot of money for us right now."

"Yeah, I figured it was. I'd be happy to look after her for a bit for you."

"I brought you some lunch, John." A female voice ended in a sharp gasp, "Schweet car!"

Ben's chin dropped to his chest, it was some sort of gathering, had to be. Ben turned to see a girl, about the same age as the mechanic kid. She had long blond hair and fair features which contrasted sharply with his darker hair.

"We're going to store her here for a bit," John said.

"Oh, cool." She handed a bag to John without taking her eyes off the car, pacing around it and peering in the windows. Stopping near the rear passenger window, she arched one eyebrow. "Are you a photographer?"

"I am," Ben said.

"We're getting married in a few days and no one to take pictures. July fourth weekend is popular I guess and we didn't book anyone in time."

Ben nudged Jake's arm, they looked at one another. Jake grinned suddenly. "Don't suppose you'd trade some wedding shots for some car repairs?"

The girl looked over at her fiancé.

John nodded, "I think we could work something out. You get your car fixed, Mary and I get some pictures."

"Schweet." Ben shook John's hand. Not only were they keeping their car, they'd get to go to the wedding of a couple of sweet kids by the name of John and Mary.

John slid his arm around Mary's waist, smiling down at her before giving her a kiss and then nodded to one of the offices. "I'm going to take my lunch in the back."

She gently caressed his arm, a look of unspoken understanding and excitement passing between them at their good fortune, before he took his leave. "I'll be right there," she replied.

John raised a hand to both Ben and Jake. "Call the shop when you find a place to stay, I'll keep you updated on the progress."

Mary watched her fiancé duck back into his office and then turned back to the two of them, crossing her arms and hitching a hip up against the desk John had been sitting at before. "You two hungry?" she asked.

"Just ate, ma'am," Ben nodded toward the direction of the diner.

"Sounds like you need a place to stay," she said, looking once again to the car. "Been on the road long?"

Jake straightened his hat and went to the trunk to get their bags. "You could say that," he snorted as he ducked beneath the trunk lid.

Ben gave her a quick, apologetic look and shrugged. "A while."

Mary's eyes continued to gloss over the car, eyes narrowing a little in thought, head tilting in curiosity, especially when Jake hauled out two bags, talismans hanging from the leather straps. Her lips thinned, the smile there waned into a sadness Ben couldn't place…until he saw her run a hand though her hair, tucking a wayward blond strand behind her ear, the charm bracelet visible against her slender wrist. Sigils and talismans and marks of protection clanked together along the circlet. Nothing you could find in some common jewelry shop either. Iron and silver, brass and tiger's eye, all the charm shapes wards against the supernatural.

The tools of a hunter.

"Nice talisman," she said, nodding to Jake's bag, subtly calling him and Ben out. "You _have_ been on the road a long time."

Ben tipped his chin toward her wrist. "Been hunting a long time," he said. "You ever hunt, Miss—?"

"Campbell," she said, sad smile reflecting now in her big eyes. "And…yes. Not anymore. Not now."

The nervous way she looked back to John's office made Ben understand to some degree the reason her arms had come to cross over her chest, her demeanor becoming more guarded.

"Did you…" she pushed away from the desk, "ever meet Samuel or Deanna Campbell?" Her voice shimmered a bit as though she was both scared and hopeful.

Jake had returned to stand beside Ben and shook his head. "No. Like to keep it just the two of us," he said. "Tried to steer clear of other company, 'less we need the help. Family?"

She huffed, shaking her head. "Parents. And your philosophy sounds almost exactly like my father's." For a moment her smile returned full before she looked away, eyes glistening. "They're dead. And I'm done."

"I'm sorry," Ben replied.

"I have John," she said, voice stronger, but the slight bob of her throat gave away her pain. "I'm gonna have a family someday and they'll know nothing of that life or of what's out there…" Her eyes locked with Ben's then moved to Jake's. "And people like you two make that possible. You make this world safer. No one really knows what sacrifices are being made…but I do. Thank you."

Ben looked over at his brother and saw the tiredness seem to ebb from his eyes in that moment. And then, suddenly, like they'd been talking about the weather or the latest ballgame, Mary's face brightened as she shrugged, the pain brushed from the soft lines of her face, returning the youthful features.

"If you go down Banker Street toward the north of town, there's an Inn, friend of mine works there." She looked one last time at the camera in the backseat, grinning. "Tell June, Mary sent you. She'll be able to help you out. And thanks for doing this; you don't know how much this means to John and me."

Ben watched her leave to join her fiancé, only able to shake the sadness he felt for her with the hope of what she had spoken. She had made a choice. One Ben never made. This life was for the called and he understood the need to get out. It was just never in him to leave. It was never in either of them, Jake or him. When their time was up, when it was time to lay down arms, they would know.

Now wasn't that time.

Ben shook his head. "I wish them luck."

Jake was silent a moment, then re-shouldered his bag. Ben noticed that he'd stubbornly chosen the heavier one. "Me too. Now let's go before I fall over." Another 'I'm too old for this crap' fell from his lips as he turned and headed for the Inn, Ben following, shaking his head.

Three days later the Chevy was working like she was brand new. They had their 'home' back and they got to go to the wedding of a couple of sweet kids by the name of John and Mary.

* * *

_We got to go to the wedding of a couple of sweet kids by the name of John and Mary._

Those were the last words written in the journal. There were no more entries after, just empty, blank and worn pages that Dean trailed his thumb over, muscles working against the tightness of his own throat.

To be that close to them, to his mother and father, to see the lives they were trying to make for themselves, to hear the way his mother thought about their future, a family that would never touch the life of the supernatural…his gut tightened and an ache built. The anger he'd felt toward her began to abate toward sadness, then churn sickeningly into a fated hopelessness.

He been livid at his father for the deal he'd made to save Dean's life, and had then turned around and done the very same thing to save Sam's. He would do it again in a heartbeat, and that was why this hurt so damn bad. Their mother, even if it had been unwittingly, had given up the one person Dean had given his soul for. Sam was carrying the burden of the blood in his veins, the curse he owned no matter what Dean said, and in that moment of learning that he had followed in his family's footsteps, Dean felt hollowed out.

His whole life he'd pictured his mother a certain way. The faded photographs and the even more faded memories of a four-year-old were all he'd had to hold onto. And from them he'd resurrected some semblance of an idea of what she'd been like and who she was…

And in these two days that image had been torn apart…

He knew what it was like to hold the body of someone you loved, to give up your soul for them; and it was the only way he'd seen at that moment to save Sam. There'd been no other choice, no other way after he'd carried around the months of pain from hurting Sam and from being torn open by his father. The frustration of being choice-less, that mark, he now felt deeply embedded in their family line.

He knew his mother's pain and at the same time that did little to calm the sting of choices the she'd made.

_I'm here, Sam. So are you. We got nothing but each other and whatever we have to do to deal with this thing, all this crap, we will. We'll do it together._

"Dean?"

"Mmm?"

"She was beautiful." Sam's voice was tired, weighted. "They looked…happy."

_She sold me out. She didn't even know me._

"She had no idea what she gave up when she made that deal." Dean cleared his throat, the sting lessoning, loosening the stiff muscles. "God, she was a hunter…" He breathed in disbelief, still struggling to wrap his head around that one. It gave a whole new meaning to 'the family business'. "She thought she could escape. She wanted whatever family she had as far away from this life as possible. She wanted us to live lives we never got to live…She had no idea…"

Dean's eyes settled on Sam's, which were unsuccessfully trying to hide beneath his bangs.

"I know…"

"But _I_ did…" Dean rubbed at his lips, letting that roll over him and through him. Sam lifted his head, eyes deepening with understanding.

_I did…_

"I wasn't going to let go, Sam. Not of you. She had no idea what she gave up, but I knew exactly what was worth my soul."

The ghost of a smile pulled at the corner of Sam's mouth, his eyes glassing over. He nodded slowly, pulling his knees up into his chest.

"You _woke up_, Sam. I came back from Hell. And our supposed family curse…I don't believe in it. Only real curse is that you're stuck with me, Sammy," Dean smirked.

Sam huffed out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Goes both ways, Dean."

Dean nodded. "Damn straight."

_We're going to be okay, Sammy._

Sam relaxed a little, releasing a shaky breath and taking in a stronger one, as though he had overheard Dean's thoughts and was in agreement. Dean felt the tension inside himself, the coiled ache in his gut lessen. After bringing Sam back last night he'd tried to deal with the anger at the truth inside himself knowing the last thing Sam needed was for him to fall apart. But it was lessening in the wake of knowing that through all of this—through all the demons and deals, through all the trade-offs and trials—they were still there.

He still had his brother.

There was a moment of silence between them, before Sam laughed a little into his knees, causing Dean to lift his eyes from the journal and arch a brow.

"What?" Dean inquired.

"So, you're named after our grandma," Sam snickered. "_Deanna._"

Dean threw his pillow at Sam, the journal slipping from his lap and landing on the spine, opening on the floor.

"You're lucky I've got a bad leg." He'd damn near killed himself on it last night. Though, if Sam tried anything again, he'd damn-well make that leg work.

"Dean…" Sam said, eyes now fastened to the floor and the open journal. There was a photo sticking out between the pages. It was of their parents. On their wedding day…

Sam reached down and picked it up, and Dean watched his throat move in a bout of emotion.

"I looked through that thing…cover to cover…" Sam breathed.

"But we never saw the last entry either," Dean reminded him.

"I want to meet them," Sam replied quietly.

"Who? Mom and Dad when they were that age? We kinda just…"

"No," Sam shook his head, setting the picture down on the bed-stand as though he was afraid it would crumble to dust in his hands. "Jake and Ben."

* * *

"Bobby, hey, it's me," Sam held his cell in the crook of his neck, while he stuffed more of his clothes and Dean's into a duffel, not paying attention to whose was whose. They'd sort it out on their own when they got to Ohio, or when Dean found himself swimming in the wrong shirt. "Dean's doing better, and I got some rest. We're heading to Ohio. I know you're coming out to meet us now, but head for Cleveland, okay? Call me when you get this, I'll tell you where we're staying."

Sam snapped the phone shut and tossed the duffel to the door before knocking on the bathroom door.

"You're not trying to look better for your prom date. We're just going to find two dudes, Dean."

He heard the shower curtain _shink_ against the metal rod as it was ripped back violently.

"Be nice to the damn cripple," Dean bellowed, and something that sounded like a wadded up towel _thunked_ against the door.

Sam laughed, the sound only slightly gravely, his lungs getting stronger after a night of sleep. "Hurry up, or no coffee."

The threat was met with unintelligible mutterings behind the door.

* * *

The box Dean had purchased at the yard sale sat on Sam's lap, his arms hung over the corners, hands dangling loosely as he watched the scenery roll by. Every time Dean glanced over at him, Sam met his sometimes concerned, often questioning expression with a small, soft smile, the one reserved for big brothers only. The fact Sam didn't ignore him surprised him, Sam thought.

He fingered the items, picking one up, staring blankly at it then putting it back. He'd been doing that for the past half hour and he knew Dean's worry was ramping up bit by bit with each passing mile.

Focusing more on the contents of the box and less on his brother, Sam picked up a newspaper clipping of a weather report, the city and date caught his eye. Lawrence, Kansas, May 1, 1983. A place he had connection to and history in, yet other than brief trips through a few years ago, no memory of.

"_You want some more coffee?" Ben swung off the picnic table bench, stood and stretched. _

"_No." Jake sat hunched over the table, papers and maps sprawled in front of him, he'd barely glance up when Ben spoke._

"_Hey, take a break for five minutes."_

_Straightening and leaning back a bit, Jake surveyed the small park surrounding the table. A group of three or four small children and two women were nearby enjoying the day and taking advantage of the swing set. "How are we going to find a six month old baby, the right six month old baby in this city? How many women do you suppose are pregnant right now?"_

"_Well, the kid has to be six months old before the end of this year, so, technically we only have to worry about the ones born before June first."_

_The vile glare Jake aimed at him made Ben smirk and fake a cringe. His witty retort was cut off by a football hitting the table and bouncing through their papers making everything flutter and scatter._

" '_m sorry." A small voice stopped them both from lunging and grabbing at the papers. "Can I have my ball back?" Large hazel-green eyes peered at them from under fair-haired bangs._

_Ben grinned at Jake's surprise when a small hand tugged on his sleeve. Blinking down at the kid Jake nodded and retrieved the wayward football. "Quite an arm you got on you there."_

_The little boy, maybe four or five nodded and grinned brightly at them. _

"_I'm so sorry." One of the women Ben had seen earlier near the swing set had both hands on the boy's shoulders now and was moving him away. "He didn't bother you did he?"_

"_Na, we're just discussing his football career." Jake smiled and Ben saw the woman, probably thirty years younger than him nearly melt from Jake's charm._

"_Do I have to stay at your house all night?" The little boy cranked his neck backwards to look up at the woman._

"_Yes, you do. Your mom and dad will be gone for the whole night. But you know what, Dean? When you go home you'll be a big brother." Taking Dean's hand in one of hers and his football in the other the woman smiled at them then headed back to the group near the swing set. Dean turned around and waved at Jake, who waved back._

"_Well," Jake sighed, "We know who it's not."_

"_Yeah?"_

"_That kid's not involved. He's obviously well over six months old."_

_Ben snorted a laugh. "I'm going for more coffee_."

"You want to stop for coffee?"

Sam jerked straighter and pulled his gaze from the box to Dean. "What?"

"Coffee, want to take a break and get some coffee?" Dean's eyes narrowed when Sam let the piece of newsprint slip from his fingers and drop back into the box. "You okay?"

"Ya-yeah, I'm fine."

Dean guided the Impala to an off ramp. "Uh huh."

They found a small diner off the highway and coffee turned into a lunch stop. Sam climbed out of the car, box tucked under one arm.

"You bringing that in?"

Sam nodded and fell into step beside his brother.

Shrugging, Dean held the door open for him. "I thought you outgrew the security blanket thing a few years ago."

There was a sign reading _Please Seat Yourself_, so Sam flipped Dean off and headed for the first vacant table. He slipped into a chair and set the box carefully on the chair next to him as Dean settled across the table and snatched up a menu. Rummaging through the box, he glanced up when Dean poked his forearm with the corner of one of the menus. "Just order me something. You should know what I like by now."

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him, shrugged and went back to reading his menu.

"What was the name of the uncle who paid for Mom's grave?"

Dropping the menu far enough to look over its top edge at Sam, Dean blinked at him. "I dunno. Dad just said an uncle. It's not like I could ever question him on details about…well anything, but particularly that. Why?"

Sam extracted a small slip of paper from the box and held it between two fingers, turned so Dean could see. Swallowing hard, his brother's face went blank as he reached across the table and took the scrap of paper from Sam.

"You've _got_ to be kidding."

"How would they even know?" Sam took the paper back and returned it to the box.

"Well, obviously they, or at least Jake did, if he paid for our mother's grave and headstone."

"I wonder if we did meet them. We've met a lot of people, Dean."

Dean shrugged, "Maybe, I think we'd remember. I'd definitely remember the car."

"_Jake, you do know Twinkies and DingDongs aren't a food group, right?"_

"_And cheese curls are?"_

"_Hey," Ben held up both hands in mock defense, "at least there's cheese in them."_

"_You go right on believing that little brother." Jake was talking to him, but his attention was on something farther down the aisle of the small store they'd stopped off for some supplies. He grabbed another handful of Twinkies and tossed them into the cart Ben shoved along in front of him._

_Ben's eyes skipped to the far end of the aisle and landed on what must have caught Jake's interest._

"_Do you believe how late people let their kids wander around by themselves?" Jake mumbled. He headed for the next aisle over._

"_Maybe their parents are in the store too?" Ben followed behind Jake, once they were around the corner Jake stopped part of the way down the aisle, reaching up for a box of pasta but looking a few feet to his right at two little boys._

"_Then why are they price comparing?"_

"_I don't know. I've never had kids, why do you ask me these things?" Tossing both hands in the air, Ben grabbed a few more things off the shelf and tossed them into the cart._

_Jake snorted but didn't answer. The smaller of the two boys walked in their direction, looking for something. He stopped when he nearly collided with Ben's legs and ran one hand through his hair. Peering up at Ben, then Jake he mumbled "'cuse me," and snatched a few cans of spaghetti before ducking away. _

"_It's okay." Jake grinned down and Ben felt a stab of pain. His brother truly loved children and took any opportunity to interact with them. Which, Ben was sure was going to get the two of them arrested at some point._

_The boy's eyes skated to their cart. "Those are my brother's favorites, but we need to get other stuff instead." He pointed to the Twinkies. "I'm seven today."_

"_Well, happy birthday." Jake grinned. _

_The older of the two boys appeared behind his brother and slid one arm across his shoulders. Ben swallowed the lump in his throat down, remembering how many times his own big brother had performed that same maneuver on him. "C'mon, Sammy, we have everything." He nodded curtly to Jake and Ben before steering the younger boy away towards the cashier. As he was paying he glanced over, Jake's eyes met his for the briefest instant before he hustled his brother outside._

_Ben quietly followed Jake to pay for their own purchases. He couldn't help feeling an odd sense of déjà vu or whatever. Maybe it was the older of the two boys had the same coloring as his own brother, dark blond hair, greenish-hazel eyes, and though the kid couldn't have been more than eleven or twelve he sported a solid, athletic build. Somehow the idea he'd just seen in the man who was his brother and this boy he didn't even know two people cut from the same cloth. _

_Grabbing one of the packs of Twinkies out of their bag, Ben sprinted out the door. "Hey! Kid!" When the two boys turned to him he threw the packet across the small parking lot. The younger of the two caught it, jumped up and down a few times and smiled brilliantly, his face breaking into dimples when he turned and offered it to the older boy. Ben was back inside the store before either child could return his gift_.

"You going to eat that?"

Sam's arm got a rough poke with the blunt end of Dean's fork. "Huh?" His gaze slipped down, a plate of food sat in front of him and he hadn't even noticed it being set there. Or Dean ordering their meal for that matter. "Too much cold syrup, made me spacey." Sam answered Dean's question before it was asked. He was offered a dubious look, but his brother ate and didn't ask any more questions.

Sam put the box in the back seat as they pulled out of the diner's parking lot and back onto the highway. Dean's sidelong glances in his direction didn't slow down one bit, however. When they pulled off to refill the tank a few hours later, Sam clicked on his small flashlight, twisted around and routed through the box some more, determined to find some clue as to what happened to Jake and Ben Colt.

There was a small, folded piece of paper tucked into one pocket of the old camera bag, Sam freed it, unfolded it carefully and read. He felt more than a little guilty when Dean popped his head in the window to ask if Sam wanted anything from inside the station store and Dean found him sitting there, tears dripping down his cheeks.

"Dude," Dean snapped, making Sam jump. "Do _not_ try to tell me this is from too much cough medicine."

"Can we…? Not here, please?"

Dean leaned against the car but didn't get inside. "What has been with you today?"

"What if they're dead?"

Swallowing, Dean didn't answer. His lips pressed together in a fine line. Moving out of Sam's line of vision for a minute he heard the _chink_ and _clunk_ of the gas nozzle being removed from the car and replaced. Dean tapped the roof of the car a few times, letting him know he was heading inside to pay. Back out a few minutes later Dean slipped silently into the car. Driving a few miles down the road Dean pulled the car off in a small park. Shutting down the engine he glanced over at Sam expectantly.

Sam handed him the paper. "It's dated two-thousand-three. I can't tell by the handwriting which one wrote it, but then this is thirty years after the journal ended," he said quietly.

Dean took the offered paper and read it. Sam watched the emotions, all too familiar to them both, rolled over his brother's features.

He knew rereading the letter was only going to make him feel worse, but Sam couldn't help himself. He wished he could figure out which of the brothers had written it. The handwriting was close to that of Jake's in the journal, but not the same. There had been a few things written by Ben and his handwriting had been very similar to his brother's.

_I've tried everything, tried calling in every favor I could think of, but nothing. After everything we've been through, it's not the kind of evil I ever thought one of us would die from. Bone cancer is insidious and I hate I can't do anything but watch my brother's life waste away. The doctors say a year, if we're really lucky. What I wouldn't do to stop it. I've even tried calling Yellow-eyes, I'd gladly give my own soul so stop this. But I guess Yellow-eyes has other things keeping him busy these days. He's not answering_.

Sam slid down until his head rested against the seat and wondered, yet again, what sort of place they'd find when they reached the address that was their destination.

_Ben pushed through the diner door, ducking the bell out of habit. He glanced around, there were a few empty tables, but he headed to the counter. Lunch was take-out today._

"_Hey there, it'll be up in a minute." The pretty blonde behind the register smiled at him and poured him some coffee, nodding to one of the stools at the counter. She retied her pony tail and moved closer to where Ben sat. "How's Jake today? He couldn't come with you?"_

_Shrugging, Ben sipped his coffee. "We're heading out in a day or so. Going back to Ohio." _

"_Leaving sunny Palo Alto for Ohio?"_

"_Well, when you put it that way, Jess," Ben laughed. He sighed, "time to head home I think. What's new with you?"_

_Jess leaned over the counter. "I met a boy."_

"_Oh?"_

_Nodding, "His name is Sam. He reminds me a lot of you actually. Our second date is tonight."_

_Ben snorted, "That might not be such a good thing." He dropped the money on the counter for the bag of food one of the cooks brought out. "You know how to get a hold of me, if this Sam of yours misbehaves, I'll break his kneecaps." He tapped the counter as he stood up, grinning. "We're leaving tomorrow, we'll be sure to stop by."_

"_You'd better," Jess called after him before turning to help other customers_.

Sam pushed himself straighter and took a look around. It was dark, there were a few stars out. He had the oddest sense of making this trip before, and dismissed it as imagination and lack of sleep. "You want me to drive for a while?"

"Na. There's a motel coming up. Let's just crash there for the night." Dean's quiet, firm tone left no room for dispute. Sam had been off the entire day and he knew his brother was worried.

While Sam gathered their things to take inside for the night, Dean went to the motel office and paid for their room. He was on his phone when he came out, nodding to the room a few doors down from where they'd parked. Dean took one of the duffels from Sam, finished his call and closed his phone. "That was Bobby. He got the message and will meet us there tomorrow."

_Jake pushed slowly out of bed. They'd just crossed the Ohio border and he knew one of them would be finishing their trip alone. He sat on the edge of the bed, breathing in the night air and letting his eyes adjust to the lower lighting before heading to the bathroom. The trip from California had taken longer, but then they weren't as young as they'd once been and driving cross country wasn't as easy as it once was. _

_Ben turned restlessly in his own bed, but didn't wake up. Jake watched him sleep for a few minutes. He eased down on the edge of Ben's bed and gently wrapped his fingers around Ben's wrist, knowing in the morning just one brother would wake up_.

**Sunset Memorial Park, North Olmsted, Ohio…**

_Billy Gareau had worked here since his college days, now he was the head grounds keeper at this cemetery. He'd seen lots, but nothing touched him nearly as much as the day one man came to bury his brother. He'd known the names Jake and Ben Colt, of course, since his dad had worked with Jake in the Cleveland Police department many years ago. His father said Jake had gone nuts, taken off and dragged his younger brother with him. Billy wasn't so sure he didn't believe the stories his dad told of what Jake claimed to have seen. Strange things went on in cemeteries and he was in one day and night on a regular basis._

_Maybe Jake Colt hadn't been the crazy one._

_He'd checked on the guy every day when he took lunch, the remaining brother who came to visit a grave religiously for three years. Sometimes he'd talk to the guy. Billy had been married and divorced twice, yet here was a man who'd lived his life with a brother and they never once gave up on one another. There was a message in there somewhere, Billy was sure._

_What he found this day didn't surprise him one bit. He knew he'd have to take care of this sooner or later and about a year ago had simply offered to make sure things were done however this guy wanted. The coroner would be here soon, after all the proper paperwork Billy would do as he'd promised and have the man he found hunched dead over his brother's grave today cremated. He didn't get what the small packet of herbs and salt was for, but he'd put that in with the body. People had asked for odder things_.

"This is it?" Dean stopped the car and nodded out the window.

"That's the address." Sam's heart fell, he was afraid this is where they'd find the Colt brothers.

"Which way?" Guiding the car through the front gates of the large cemetery, Dean glanced sideways at Sam.

Wordlessly Sam pointed to the road leading to the right. It wasn't a long drive, a few minutes through immaculate grounds. The sun shone down brightly on freshly cut grass and flowering shrubs. Finally, they found the marker they'd been searching for.

Climbing from the car, Sam stretched in the sun and scanned the section of cemetery. "Which one do you think died first?" He pulled his lower lip between his teeth for a few beats.

Dean turned and leaned both arms on the roof of the car. "I don't think it matters, Sammy. Whichever way it went it was the end for them both. We'll find out soon enough." He pushed off the car and followed Sam off the road and onto the grass, "Hey, Sammy, what do you suppose happened to their car?" Dean jogged to catch up with him and pushed his elbow into Sam's side.

Sam snorted, rolled his eyes and shook his head as he walked over the grass, reading grave markers, chanting a continuous _I love my brother_ in his head.

* * *

They stood in silence before two bronze plaques near an oak tree, staring at the names etched there in reverence. Even Dean was quiet, becoming more still than Sam could ever remember him being. They hadn't even spent this much time at their own mother's grave. Dean had never seen the point of standing where there was no body. He'd scoffed at visiting a headstone that had been put up by someone they didn't even know.

And now that they did, Sam wondered what Dean was thinking now. Like too many times in their lives, his brother's expression gave away nothing.

Sam had already accepted that they were gone. He'd known before they got much closer to their destination that the address wasn't residential. It didn't lessen the ache of disappointment in his breast. He'd wanted to meet them, even if he had spent the past few days in their shoes. _Everything dies..._

He sighed, shuffling a little, before kneeling down to touch the plates before they left, moving unconsciously in a gesture of respect and remembrance. There was no way to tell who went first, no dates were beneath their names, and he knew Dean was right. It didn't matter who went first...It would have been the end for both of them.

_But not for us_, Sam thought as he felt Dean move beside him, his shadow spilling over the graves. _Everything dies, but not everything comes back._

His fingertips ran the edge of their names, gracing the only thing that was written on each: _Brother_

A deep pressure started to build behind his eyes, spreading along the bridge of his nose and bleeding back through his frontal lobe. He sucked in a breath, the grave markers shimmering in and out of vision, the beating of his heart echoing through his ears. And then there was nothing, no sight or sound, no sensation, before the deluge of images bombarded him.

Jess smiling as she poured coffee, Dean in the park when he was young and an older man giving him back his football, Sam getting a birthday present from a kind stranger when he was seven, and then he knew the ones he was seeing were Jake and Ben, the last flashes of faces and moments of Jake by Ben's bedside...

Sam lurched away from the graves, finding Dean's arm against his back, a hand at his shoulder, his voice echoing through the fog of Sam's mind, calling his name. Dean was helping him up, spinning him to face him, hands steady against his face while the rest of the world tilted for a moment. Pressing his eyes shut, Sam drew in a deep breath and re-centered himself.

Dean was there. Always there. For the first time in a long time Sam didn't feel like such a freak. For the first time in a long time, he wasn't some curse. Dean had reminded him of that by just giving a damn, by running after him...by once again showing Sam there was nothing that could change what he was to Dean.

_I wasn't going to let go, Sam. Not of you. She had no idea what she gave up, but I knew exactly what was worth my soul._

Brothers.

"'M okay..."Sam muttered before opening his eyes, finding Dean's expression saturated with concern. Sam's hand settled against Dean's shoulder, squeezing it to convey some semblance of reassurance. "'M okay, Dean. I am." He shook his head, voice breathy, throat tight. The last image of Jake and Ben causing his eyes to sting. "Really need to figure this psychic thing out...getting sick of not being able to control it..."

Dean had released him, staying close. "We will, Sam. You have my word."

Sam smiled a little, hand going to his eyes, pressing against them, the images still seared there behind his lids, reanimating as he pressed harder creating sparks of light.

"What did you see?" Dean asked. "You saw them didn't you?"

Sam's hand dropped away, eyes sliding to the bronze plaques which were glinting, catching the sun. "I got some last looks. Nothing that made sense..." He sighed deeply. "You're right, Dean. Doesn't matter how they died...they fought long and hard...and together."

Dean nodded slowly. "That's all that matters."

The soft crunch of grass beneath someone's feet caused both of them to turn in unison. Sam saw Bobby walking toward them, hands shoved deep in his pockets, ball-capped head bowed. He looked up at the two of them from under the brim, smiling weakly, eyes going to the graves.

"Always wondered what happened to them," he said quietly, coming to stand at Sam's side.

Sam had called Bobby again just outside of Cleveland, telling him the truth about where they'd been these past few days. He remembered how quiet Bobby had become, the names, Jake and Ben Colt, breathed through the phone like they were to be revered.

Bobby never knew what happened to them. Only found their car with Rufus a few years ago. Sam had asked him not to tell Dean. Sam had plans for that car and for his brother.

Bobby gave Sam a nod and removed his baseball cap, running a hand through his hair. "You two reminded me of them in a way," he sighed. "Jake always had some smart ass thing to say."

His eyes slid to Dean who huffed, ticking up the corner of his mouth in response. Bobby then nodded to Sam. "Ben always seemed to know what to do."

Bobby returned his cap and shrugged. "In hunting, family is where you find it. What you two have is rare. A gift. I'm glad I got to know them, Jake and Ben, even if it was just when I was starting out. Saved my life...You two are the only family I have now. Took what those two gave me and wanted to do the same for you. Had no idea you'd become like sons."

Sam smiled at that, and Dean clapped Bobby on his shoulder. "You're getting soft in your old age, you know that?" he asked.

"Ever the smart ass," Bobby shook his head. "Say I'm old again and I'll whoop your ass, boy."

Dean smirked.

"All I'm saying is this war is dark and ugly and suffocating...but you have each other. There will always be comrades, brothers in arms, people fighting the good fight, one generation to the next." He nodded to the graves. "Consider the torch passed."

Sam swallowed against the tightness gathering in his throat, taking in what Bobby was saying, nodding in agreement.

Bobby looked over at Dean, shaking his head. "Good to see you're not knocking on Death's door," he said.

While it was said with a joking air, Sam heard the deeper thread of concern. Bobby had to have driven there straight, no sleep, to be with them now. That or he'd discovered a way to cheat time and space.

"You're walking, too. Good sign."

"I just got back, I'm not looking to check out anytime soon," Dean said quietly, eyes sliding to Sam's with a promise. "As for the leg...I've had worse."

"Good, kid. Wanna keep you both around." Bobby threw a glance back toward his rusted out Chevelle at the entrance to the cemetery. "I'll give you two some time. There's a diner back at the street before last. Meet you there."

Sam watched him go wondering once again if he knew what he'd done for them. If he had any concept of what it meant to know he'd come all this way, even if it was to find them both well. He could see the gratitude etched in his brother's face as he stared after their friend, then slowly back to the graves.

Comrades. Brothers in arms...

There was no greater peace in Sam in that moment, as he studied his brother, then knowing that they were the next generation to fight and survive, to live and protect and overcome. They were going to fight the good fight, and there was no greater hope in Sam than in the promise that he had a brother who would fight unconditionally alongside him.

-The End-

* * *

A/N: Thank you all for reading and for the encouragement along the way! Special thanks again to our betas as well. We hope you've enjoyed this story as we've both enjoyed writing it. If you are interested, the next installment in the _War Without Front_ series will be _A Bright World _by Bayre, and comes out tomorrow here: (http : // bayre. webs .com /abrightworld. htm) Remember to take out the spaces. This link won't work until July 16.

Since Jake and Ben didn't become hunters out of revenge, but more because hunting things, saving people, it made sense that their end wouldn't be a typical hunter ending.

We've loved having you along for the journey. Take care.

--Bayre & SJ


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